


Duty Doesn't Come For Free

by NuitNuit (Tasmen)



Series: Duty Doesn't Come For Free [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-30
Updated: 2010-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 72,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasmen/pseuds/NuitNuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>AN:</b>
<i> This chapter is on the shorter side of things due to content. HUGE <b>warnings</b>. Reference to and implied torture. No kidding here. If this sort of thing is something you prefer not to read, scroll down to the <b>bottom </b>for a brief summary of the chapter.<br/></i></p></blockquote>





	1. It's My Party and I'll Cry if I want to

_Determination drove her towards the archdemon, her hands barely able to hold the massive sword within its grasp. A scream errupted from her mouth as she plunged the sword deep in the fallen demon and sliced it's neck top to tip. Light radiated from the wound. The ground trembled. Electricity filled the air. And then the world exploded, a mushroom cloud of the demon's spirit freed and purged from this plane. _

_She lay there unconscious. The demon's final strike hit gold. He ran to her side, clutching her limp body within his arms. _

_"She is alive," Wynne voiced, her tone barely a whisper and filled with happy disbelief._

_His lips brushed against her forehead, beckoning her to return and awake. "I need you in this world," he murmured. _

_"Dear Alistair," an Antivan accent invaded Alistair's personal space, "You should leave her be before she wakes up, lest you hurt her further." _

_The meaning was clear. It was over. The death of the demon meant a return to the reality of living. What was permissible during times of war, no longer could be allowed during times of peace and rebirth._

_He had wanted to hold her into his arms and profess his love right then and there. Tell her what an idiot he had been. It surely wouldn't be the first time he had to admit such a thing. He was always doing idiotic things after all. He was nothing if not consistent in that regard._

_Only with Wynne and Zevran's persistence did he relent and release his hold upon Elishka and let her go._

_The walk down the stairs from the Fort's roof was a long one. Like habit, his hand reached for hers. She did not object. Her own fingers laced around the cool metal of his glove covered digits. This was their goodbye. He knew that. As soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs and the main entrance, duty would come knocking. He was to become King and marry the previous Queen. Elishka had arranged it all._

_He stalled just shy of the door. Would it be so horrible to run away and shirk his responsibility? He knew the answer before he even asked himself the question. It was something he could not do._

"_Elishka," he said quietly before she could open the door. "I…"_

_Her hand jerked back, leaving Alistair's abandoned. "Alistair, we need to let people know it's over." The double meaning in her words not completely lost to him. There was an obvious sadness in her eyes. She felt something still. And as always, she proved to be the stronger of the pair._

* * *

He stood upon the dais – a majestic portrait of a hero swathed in golden armor. At his side stood his betrothed – an image of traditional beauty dressed in rich silks and velvets. They cut the image of the perfect storybook couple, the knight in shining armor and the delicate flower of a woman standing with him. To all but a few, it seemed the match of all matches.

"What beautiful children they will make," a noble woman whispered to her daughter. All the nobles were fawning over the pairing. Their impending nuptials brought with them a new hope for peace, prosperity and a Ferelden free of the Blight. It was a time for celebration and revelry. Ale and wine flowed freely. Huzzahs filled the air. Normally chaste women bestowed small pecks of affection upon the glorious saviors of the country. It was a time of jubilation.

For one, unfortunately, it was the stuff of nightmares come to life. Elishka had faced the archdemon. She had slaughtered hundreds of thousands of darkspawn (or so the battle weariness in her bones told her). But here, standing in the midst of all this happiness, she felt little a little ray of doomshine -- her own light of doom shining down upon her dim. The man upon the dais had been her first love. She had sacrificed for him. She had fought for and with him. And there he stood, next to another woman he would soon make his bride. Her expression etched taut, contorting the normally soft and youthful lines of her face. Did she really have to watch this? Was it really necessary for her to be here? Every single laugh that met her ears felt like a mocking blow.

Maybe she could run and hide behind one of the overly decorative tapestries lining the hall's walls. Surely no one would notice. So many around her were wrapped up in their own giddiness. The archdemon had been defeated after all. Hurray! No one had to be turned into a broodmother. Little kids wouldn't serve as some kind of demonic dessert buffet. It was a time of celebration and all she wanted to do was scream and run away. The only prize she got at the end was a big serving of bitter duty pie right in the face. It wasn't exactly conducive to the being in the party spirit.

_"But..being King, being engaged to Anora... that raises some questions about us. About you and me.."_

No amount of ale or wine consumed could wipe away the bitter taint of his words. It didn't matter how blessed the alcohol may have been by the Revered Mother. It still filled with the stomach with the promise of vomit later in the evening.

But no, she could not leave. Duty, the ever cruel and mean taskmaster, required that she remain. She had to make her appearance at this celebration ball. What would it have been without the Hero of Ferelden for all to see and gaze upon like the prized performer at a traveling faire? She was a necessary accessory to the event much like a platter of food or a jug of wine. Everyone wanted to say they were privileged to be in the presence of such a great figure and drink in her essence. The shortest conversation created bragging rights. Everyone wanted their fifteen minutes and being near her, talking to her, it provided such.

"_Oh yes, we talked. Lovely woman. We are the best of friends now."_

There were few in the room she happily would have shared her time with. The one she craved the most, however, found his cup quite full, runneth over with the sublime and liquid velvet vintage of a Ferelden noble woman, Anora.

While alcohol may not have cured her woes or filled the empty feeling residing in her gut, it most definitely could make things slightly more tolerable. Maybe she would get lucky and get sick all over Anora's fancy slippers. Dark humor poked its head out brief in sarcastic laughter.

Ever the mind reader, Zevran, holding two goblets, sashayed to Elishka's side.

"My dear, you look very much like a woman in need of a tasty treat," Zevran said, a goblet offered. One person's letch was another person's Zevran. At first, Elishka had found his openly outward vulgarity and flowery worded innuendos to be annoying and bothersome. They left her uncomfortable. Over time, however, she had found a level of comfort in his brazen eloquence. It helped that he was rather dashing in his own way. He was not ruggedly handsome in the traditional way like Alistair. Rather, Zevran was more exotic. The tan of his skin, his feline like features, the spicy yet indefinable scent that cloyed to him, all helped portray an image of intoxicating danger. He was the type of man a mother might warn her daughter about -- nothing but the illest of intentions could drive such a man. Guard thy chastity! But as she never quite knew her mother, any such warnings never met her ears. Her defenses weakened and she grew to genuinely like the man.

A bit of mischief sprouted at the corners of his mouth, "Of course, if you had a different treat in mind..." A lothario to the last. If he sensed the undercurrent of torment she was currently swimming in, Zevran let on no signs of it and chose to quite purposefully evade their swell with a graceful sidestep of innuendo.

She lifted her free hand to stroke the strong slope of Zevran's jaw line, tracing the perimeter of his facial tattoo. "You are a true friend even if you DID try to kill me." Light, she brushed her lips against his in a kiss more platonic than passionate.

_Cherries and musk_.

Her tongue slid across her lips, savoring the aftertaste of his kiss before a smile, albeit small, cracked her embittered visage. A minute bit of life shone through in her eyes. "Let's go have some real fun away from all this..courtly formality." She hooked an arm around one of Zevran's, tugging him closer to her side. He was coming whether he wanted to or not. And as if he needed further inspiration to follow the Warden in whatever pursuits she wished to engage away from the ball, she laid another kiss gentle upon his cheek. "Let's go find Oghren and drink Demerim dry." If anyone could help them with such a daunting task, it would be the dwarf with the hallow leg.

"And here I was hoping for something that didn't involve tossing a dwarf," Zevran mused as he began to lead Elishka through the crowd toward the bawdy and already drunken dwarf. "Please tell me it doesn't involve tossing the dwarf unless that is a euphemism I am not quite aware of. You Ferelden's and your crazy traditions and talk…" His mouth begged while his eyes played.

A truly riotous laugh escaped her mouth, the first of the evening. "No, it definitely does not involve such circus antics and it most certainly is _not _a euphemism. Though, I might enjoy seeing the dwarven dance of death. I can only imagine what Oghren would look like doing such a jig."

The crowds of nobles easily parted ways for the pair as they cut through the masses of festive gatherers to find their way toward their favorite ginger dwarf. From the looks of things as they neared him, Oghren was one comment away from being ejected. Their timing could not have been more perfect or not, depending on which part you played in the scene already in progress.

Oghren had a noble woman from Brackenwall cornered. Her countenance made no effort in disguising how repellent she found the man. She seethed of nobility – a haughty air swirling about her and corrupting her every glare and twist of the mouth. "So I was telling the King about polishing his sword," shot out ale soaked lips, a bit of alcohol rich spittle dripping down to soak into the thick mass of his braided beard. No good could come of this story.

As entertaining as it may have been to allow Oghren to carry on and speak of the new King's self love training, the better part of common sense nipped at Elishka's heels and bade her to stop the dwarf. "Oghren," she interrupted, a hand tugging at the back of his head, pulling on his hair. "I think our time at court has come to an end for the night. I'm sure there are many people that would like to buy us drinks." Heroism did have some perks and it was time that they enjoyed them.

Blink blink. Oghren wobbled a moment as he tried to focus on where that voice was coming from. Eventually, beer soaked lenses managed to find Elishka. Wry and all together way too toothy, he smirked. "Aye and who am I to deny them the pleasure! We should go back to the Pearl. I understand they named a new ale after your mighty highness up there." A meaty thumb swept sloppy in motion to the dais. "Called it something like...ugh.." A belch bellowed from deep within his rotted gut. Noxious did not even begin to describe the smell of the beastly burp.

"I do believe something crawled into his mouth and died," Zevran whispered, his mouth finding Elishka's ear with a play nip.

She swatted at the persistent elf. Shoo fly and looked back upon Oghren. "I think we should get him out of here before his dinner decides to retreat." A greenish coloring had overtaken Oghren's features. It was only a matter of time before the purge before the next binge.

Disgust tinged fingertips pushed at the dwarf's head as Zevran tried to guide Oghren to the exit. The look of the pair did garner another smile from Elishka and for just a moment, a little bit of happiness penetrating her gloom.

* * *

He stood upon the dais – a pitiful portrait of a cowardly man swathed in the false idolatry of his golden armor. The woman at his side, his betrothed, rejected the quiet advance of his hand with the withdrawal of her own. Any attempt he had made to soften the discomfort of their matching was met with cool detachment. This was no love match contrary to what the masses may believe. Marriages at the highest levels of the aristocracy often were not. Political implications of a match were far more important than if the bride and groom loved or even had a genuine like for the other. With time, one would hope that a love would flourish. It did not appear that storybooks would not be written about the great love affair of Maric's bastard son and his wife, his brother's widow, in the future.

Alistair had never been one for formal affairs. His time at Redcliffe was filled playing mud and sleeping in hay. At the Chantry, he spent more time cleaning up the kitchen and engaging in a the occasional pillow than he did in attending parties or balls. Neither his boyhood nor boy to manhood homes provided him with any training necessary to wade through the treacherous waters of a formal gathering filled with nobles.

Longing filled his eyes as he searched through the crowd of revelers. There was one person in particular he tried to hone in on, to find. And as he found her in the thick of the crowd, he felt a lump grow in his throat and a sick feeling rise in his stomach. She was so close yet so far away. The little duty demon on his right shoulder had bade him to push her away. He must produce an heir lest the country drop into civil war again. His heart, however, yearned for something else.

The all too eager clutch of the Antivan wrapped about her slender waist, guiding Elishka's path. Blue eyes narrowed, a spotlight of jealous attention shone upon the Zevran's hand. The idea of Elishka with someone else…He couldn't complete the thought. He would not complete the thought.

He had not wanted to be King, but she persuaded him. She spoke of her faith in him and how she felt it would make a wonderful King. She had convinced him to marry Anora for the sake of the Kingdom. He had thought they would be together forever and yet, here they were separated by the great chasm of civic burden.

"Fluffy bunnies in petticoats," he whispered to himself in some attempt to change the course of his mind.

"Excuse me," asked Anora, the thin line of her sharp brow peaking upward. She had heard him.

_Wonderful_.

"Nothing," he murmured, trying to disguise his discomfort with a glance to the side.

_Ooo look, pretty flowers. Nothing to see here, Anora, move along._

With a dismissive look down the line of her nose, Anora turned away from her soon to be husband and focused her attentions on the doting noble standing in front of her.


	2. A Gift Returned

The sharp stabbing pain in her head woke her_. _Had someone shoved a dagger in her skull while she slumbered? As the heavy curtain of sleep began to lift, recollection began the slow trickle in -- pots and pans clanking and clanging in her mind.

_Never try to drink Oghren under the table again_.

The grand plan of the previous evening had been to drink Denerim dry. And by the crashing feeling pounding into her brain, it seemed they had given it the old champion's try. She had drunk in the past, mostly at camp. But never had she consumed the River Dane all in one night. Slowly, she opened her eyes, eyelashes fluttering tentative. Baby steps. A dusty darkness clung in the air holding back the eye jabbing rays of the daylight.

_The Maker truly earned his keep the day he invented curtains._

Fingers ran through the tangled mass of dark hair atop her head. Small remnants of previous night's hairstyle stubbornly failed to die causing fingers to meet with an impenetrable impasse of knots and hair pins. The darkspawn could surely have learned a great deal in barrier building from the ladies of Orlais. Only Leliana could construct a hairstyle to revival the unmoving coif of Zevran's. As she withdrew her fingers, a chunk of cubed potato fell upon her face. Involuntarily, a dry heave pushed at the top of her throat. She hoped the potato had not been consumed before it found a temporary resting place in her hair.

Rhythmic breathing not her own registered in her ears. She was not alone. The dancing hangover gremlins frolicking menacingly atop her skull were kept at bay with the slow turn of her head. Blissfully asleep, perhaps in his own alcohol coma lied Zevran. "Of course," she murmured, sarcasm touching her tone. She had been resistant to the elf's advances up to this point. There was not telling what may have finally caused her to relent – alcohol, anger, old fashioned unadulterated lust. She had more than enough reasons to take a dip in the fine oceans of Antiva for a pleasure filled swim.

She rolled her head back against her pillow, gaze drifting up to the ceiling or what she could see of it in the dim lighting of the room. Concentration was drawn, an effort made to remember exactly what had happened the night before. After leaving the ball, her memories became disjointed and scattered. A flash of this, a flash of that, but no cohesive picture of the entire evening could be drawn. She knew she had held Oghren's beardstache as he threw up. Another heave rocked her body at the remembrance. She'd always been a sympathetic vomiter. Even the idea of someone getting sick could send her into spasms.

_Please don't let the potato be from Oghren._

Another memory trickled in, previous thoughts of Oghren the catalyst. There had been words about sending Alistair a package. And while she was speaking of the special delivery, she stumbled and fell head first into Oghren's lap. Her drinking compatriots found it especially funny and thought she had indeed meant to send the King a very special 'gift' from down under Orzammar style. She knew, however, that was not exactly what she had in mind even if perhaps the message that would have been delivered could have been interpreted quite the same.

A low groan grew in her throat at the thought of Alistair. Her mindful wanderings drifted to him far more than she cared for. The man she had made King, her former lover and friend, had made his decisions and she had made hers.

The last time they truly spoke beyond overly polite platitudes was at Fort Drakon. During those last moments before they left the Fort, she could have swayed a King. Desperation filled his expression as they stood there, ready to face the world and announce the Archdemon had been slain. It would have been so easy to hold onto his hand and make him change his mind. He wavered and she had put to gently push with a finger to encourage his fall. He would have resented her for it later, however.

She had led up until that point. Though she was the junior Warden, she made all the decisions; a point he was quite content with. But when she handed those reins to him to become King and rule over all, he let her down in the worst way possible. That day at Fort Drakon he looked to her, almost begging her to tell him what to do, but she would not and could not do it. She got to be the strong one of the pair, as always. She had to play the grown up while he went off to play King with real life action figures of soldiers and citizens.

Anger spiked, leaving an acrid taste in her mouth and another jolt of pain in her head. Her tongue slicked across her mouth, moistening parched lips that tasted of stale ale and overly pungent wine. Another lesson learned -- all actions have consequences, some of which come in the form of nasty breath and pounding headaches.

Carefully, she pried herself from Zevran's sleepy clutch and eased herself from the bed. Her bare feet pushed into the cool flooring, sending a chill along her body. The quick movement of a hand reached for the thin covering of a nearby chemise. She tip toed to the heavy chest sitting in the corner of the room. What she needed was inside. A quick rummage through the chest provided a dead rose wrapped in a silken piece of cloth. Time had taken its toll on the flower -- brittle leaves and petals clung stubborn to a dried thorny stem.

_"I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?'"_

If she had known then what she knew at this moment would she have responded to his gesture any differently? Probably not, but it was a nice thought to entertain. Would things have been far easier if she never accepted the sweetness of the sentiment and nipped things in the bud, so to speak? Hindsight was a wonderful method of self torture and brought a small laugh laced in vinegar from her mouth.

Whatever the rose had been at the time, it no longer held the same meaning. It could only serve as a reminder of what could have been, what should have been. The trash would have been a suitable repository for the withered cutting. But she had something else in mind -- a hurt for a hurt. It was petty and silly and she was not above it.

The services of a young boy working at the inn were quickly procured through her slightly open room door. "To the royal palace for the King from the Grey Warden Elishka," she ordered while dropping a sovereign in the boy's dirty hand. She, no doubt, made his day with such a payment. She wanted to make sure this was done and as soon as possible. It was the last loose string she had to tie up before leaving Denerim. Hopefully her travels would bring her nowhere near this city for quite some time.

Her chore completed, she eased out of the thin covering of her gown and slid back into bed next to Zevran, wrapping herself up in the warmth and comfort of his company. Sinewy arms were drawn about her in embrace. The small of her back fit perfect into the flat lines of his stomach. The chill that consumed her body soon dissipated as she soaked in the body heat from the elf at her back.

There was something agreeable about the closeness of her bed mate. They may have stumbled into bed together thanks wine's intervention, but suddenly, she no longer felt at all sad about it. It felt nice to be held again, to feel the rise and fall of another's chest against her back and the warmth of breath against her neck.

She had not really cried for Alistair yet. Between the Archdemon, deals with she-devils of Morrigan and Anora, and just generally killing darkspawn, she had not allowed herself the time. She knew if she started, she may never stop and what could she have done at the top of Fort Drakon if she needed a hanky? However, comfortably settled in Zevran's arms, she felt the tears begin to well in the corners of her eyes.

_These are the last tears I'll cry for him_.

Part of her knew, however, that there was no way she could keep that promise.

* * *

A heaviness of mood clung to him as he made his way to the main dining hall to have breakfast with his fiancée. _This was the first day of the rest of your life_, he told himself. Quit being such a sniveling baby. Surely things with Anora wouldn't be that bad. She was quite beautiful in an ice queen cometh kind of way. If he could sleep with the apostate, he could sleep with anyone after all -- a regular glass is half full kind of revelation.

_Oghren in a dress. Oghren in a dress, _he repeated in his mind trying to flush out the memory currently burned into his brain. And for a moment, he did feel the stubborn tug of a smile. The image painted in his mind of the dwarf wearing formal finery was all together too funny to ignore. The moment was short-lived, however, as he entered the dining room and found himself momentarily frozen by the glacial glare tossed in his direction.

A cooly spoken, "Alistair," came effortlessly from an already seated and waiting Anora. Her patience with Alistair was running at its usual level of empty. "We've been waiting." And by we, she meant just her. No one else was seated at the sprawling table meant to serve twenty. Instead, it had been set for just two -- an intimate breakfast indeed.

"You could have started without me," he sputtered out, his discomfort level rising with each passing moment. Anora had a way of looking at Alistair that made him want to retreat and hide in a corner like a little boy that had just been caught eating cookies before dinner.

Anora was seated at one end of the table. Alistair was expected to sit at the other end. He'd have to yell if he wanted to speak to her.

_Thank the Maker for small favors._

There was relatively little he wanted to say to her. Anything he said would be taken out of context and would only make him feel even more inadequate than he already was feeling.

"It would not have been proper to do so," Anora responded in a neutral tone. All the formality and rules were something Alistair was going to have a hard time getting used to. He had never been much of a rules type of person.

"Er…uh, sorry then." Eyes cast down to look at the table. Never had a splintered surface looked so divine.

_Don't look into her eyes and she can't turn you into stone_.

A small package wrapped in canvas sat for him atop a golden plate. "Anora, you shouldn't have. I love presents," he mused, his mood lightened at the prospect of a gift. The little boy in him came out to play. Maybe he would get his cookies yet.

Blue eyes rolled, a small snort accompanying the movement. "I did not. It was delivered moments before you arrived. It is from that…" She stopped short, as if searching for the word in an invisible dictionary splayed open in the air for her to read. "…it is from the Grey Warden," finally settled upon. There was no disguising Anora's disdain for Elishka. Anora had wanted the crown alone and did not have desire to share it with another husband, especially another son of Maric.

A quiet, "Oh," was given in response as Alistair ran a hand over the rough wrapping. "And to think, I didn't get her anything," he said before even realizing the words came out of his mouth.

Fingers made careful work of the canvas covering and stall in their movement as eyes behold the treasure within in. A rose. It couldn't be _the _rose. Alistair had only to look at it to know it was the one and the very same. Blood drained from his face, an ashen parlor taking over his coloring. Why would she return this? Was she intending to hurt him more than he already hurt? She had to know this wasn't easy for him. Did she have to make it worse with such a cruel offering?

"I'm not very hungry. Go ahead and eat without me," he stated quite suddenly. He had to be out of this room. The walls were closing in. It was all too much. He couldn't deal with this and Anora at the same time.

The chair tumbled to the floor as he quickly pushed away from the table and near leaped for the door. A servant fell to the side, dropping a tray and all upon it. A quick, "Sorry," spurted out of Alistair's mouth as he made his hasty exit. It wasn't exactly Kingly behavior, but Alistair didn't really feel all that royal at the moment.

Anora's words went unrecognized and unresponded to as she attempted to find out what was in the package and what was wrong. _Must leave room now_ continued to play over and over in his head as he succeeded in his final escape.

The journey to his chambers took forever. A single building should simply not be so big. Does one person really need all this space? Anyone in the way was pushed aside, little regard taken for the obstacles that happened upon his path. The halls would no doubt be a flutter with gossip about the King's behavior. But that was of little importance to him.

The door slammed shut with a sense of urgency. Orders were yelled, "I'm not to be disturbed."

Tentative, fingers brushed alone the outline of a shriveled petal. Reality met gravity.

Rage began to build deep within the body of his chest. How could she? The already tragic image he had of Elishka and their relationship tarnished further in his mind. She had to know what this would do to him. Was her intent to unhinge him? He had done what he must for his country. Could she not understand that?

The rose dropped to the ground and was soon crushed under foot as Alistair walked to grab the first visible and breakable object at hand – a vase. Fingers grasped vicious at the slender neck of vessel, strangling it. A need for violence brewed and sought release as he hurled the vase towards the cobbled stone wall. It shattered in a myriad of pieces – broken shards of what once was a thing of beauty laid upon the floor in ruins.

_A child, Alistair, you are acting like a child_.

He could hear Wynne saying those words to him. Ever since meeting the elder mage, she had been a calming figure in his life. She could see things that he did not or could not see and had a way of conveying them to Alistair that he could understand. A deep breath was drawn in, filling his lungs.

_Helloooo Alistair. Drama King much?_

For all his portrayal as a laid back man, he had always had a temper and been one to blow off the handle when things do not go his way. And that little Warden mage from the Circle tower knew exactly how to incite his anger.

Feet push against the shattered shards of glass upon the floor, further spreading them about. Slow, he let out a deep exhale, an attempt to muffle the flames within. He always had storybook ideas about love. The Chantry taught boys to be gentlemen, to court ladies and treat them with respect and admiration. He had tried to do that with Elishka. He still loved her. That had never stopped even if he had ended their intimate relationship.

But he could not be a good King if sat around and pouted like a love sick puppy dog. A decision had been made. He would have to attempt to shut off his heart. He needed to not think about her. He needed to push all thoughts of her out of his mind. It was a time for pragmatism over romanticism or so he tried to convince himself as he looked down upon the ground and the mess he had made.


	3. The Walk of Shame

"We'll be leaving in the early, early morning," Elishka announced to the Antivan upon noticing his eyes slowly open and awareness flicker to life in their depths. "I want to avoid anything special people have in mind for our departure." Or anything Alistair might have in mind for her after he received his thoughtful present. But she left that particular snippet of information unspoken.

The blond slope of an eyebrow cocked upward, "One with the shadows we shall become then." Languid, he extended the full length of his body against the mass of bed beneath him. A bellow of a sigh escaped his lips as muscles lengthened and contracted with the ending of the stretch. A grin slid slippery upon the curvature of his mouth, "Where are we off to? Somewhere exotic I hope."

Busy with the task of packing away what few belongings she's managed to carry with her, Elishka took pause to look over her shoulder at the display on the bed. While engaged in his after sleep repose, Zevran's body shrugged off the meager covering of the top sheet, leaving him exposed to the world as the Maker had intended.

His body differed from Alistair's quite a bit. Alistair's form had the well muscled proportions one would expect of a man that carried and swung heavy metal objects repetitively. Zevran's body was lither and toned allowing him to be quite nimble with his movement and outmaneuver his foes. His skin glistened of Antivan sun and warmth -- a healthy shade of bronze. There was something especially calculating about the laziness of positioning.

_He is evil._

Heat flushed her cheeks at the display put on for her. He knew just how to lay, just how to contort his body to make it seem most appealing. And the upward tilt of those lips in all knowing smirk only further helped to prove his intent.

A quick turn of the head and she diverted her eyes. Distractions were not in order. Packing was very serious business and she was nothing if not the consummate professional. The whole having possibly slept with her Antivan companion was to go ignored. "I figured we would ride to Lothering and see what is left and who survives. I imagine amongst the survivors, we may find a few new recruits for the Wardens."

"Of course," Zevran responded, an undisguised amusement lingering in his tone. "Such bashfulness, though, my little Warden? I had thought we were beyond such modesty, my dear. After all, I am able to identify the mole you have on your…"

"I still love him," her mouth betrayed, hurling out words before she had a chance to swallow them down and keep them silenced. "I was drunk and hurt. You were..."

_Don't say it..._

"…available." There went her mouth again. She closed her eyes tight. _Ugh. _Guilt flared. She had meant to use her inside voice and not the outside one. She stayed her position, keeping her back to him. While the cowardly move, she could not take it upon herself to look at the elf. Foot met mouth.

The silence in the room hung heavy for what seemed eons. Anxious with embarrassment, Elishka raised her hand and began to chew on the already mangled tip of a nail -- an indelicate habit to say the least.

As the coppery taste of her own blood started to tickle the edge of her tongue, she felt a familiar touch upon the rise of a shoulder blade. His touch was gentle and tender, nothing she felt she deserved. "I'm sorry, Zev. I didn't mean it like that," birthed in a ragged whisper.

Fingertips pressed ginger into shoulders nudging her to turn and face him. Their bodies stood inches apart; however, beyond the light caress of Zevran's finger in nudge of her head upward, he respected the invisible bubble of personal space she had erected around herself.

"Elishka," he began, using an address of familiarity. "I make no claims on you." Sincerity flashed within in his eyes. "Besides, it is not such a terrible thing to be used by such a beautiful woman, no?" A rascal of a smile pounced upon his lips. "It was truly a victimless crime, I assure you. I seek no recompense, that is, unless, you wish to be spanked for your sins. Or spank me for your sins."

Charm's frisky dagger took aim and jabbed its target. Laughter broke her tension, "No, I do not wish to be spanked. I do wish, however, that you put on some clothes." Self pity and remorse were cast aside and left in puddle upon the floor.

"I notice you did not say you did not wish to spank me. Duly noted, my fair Warden." With flourish, Zevran took a step backward and bent at the waist. A hand swept grandly, a jester's wiggle upon his brow, "But I shall put on my clothes if you so wish. I am nothing if not your servant."

* * *

"The Warden, she left in the early morning, my lord." He heard the words but he could hardly believe them. He took a moment's pause to absorb their meaning. She was supposed to stay and help him rule the Kingdom she put him at the top of. Why would she leave? Of course, he knew the answer but did not want to readily admit it.

"Who left with her?" Did he really have a right to wonder or care? The night before he had promised himself that he was done, but here he sat, a jealous school boy sulking because his crush didn't come to class.

"The Antivan, my lord, was reported to have left with her. The dwarf still remains in the city and is currently staying at the Pearl helping with the..ahem..reconstruction as it was put," rattled off the messenger in as professional a tone as possible, his gaze purposefully focused upon the floor.

This was a new thing and Alistair did not like it. No one would look him in the eyes anymore. Suddenly he was too regal for simple human contact.

A frown cut into the slopes of Alistair's mouth, betraying a further darkening of mood. He had asked her at one point if there was something between the pair. She had denied it. Doubt began to eat at his gut. Could she have lied to him and had an affair with Zevran on the side? Teeth bit at the inside of a cheek, chewing along the tender flesh.

_I will not go down this path_.

Fingers extended in a dismissive flit, excusing the messenger from his presence. He had always felt Zevran was all bravado and no substance. He never understood why Elishka had let the assassin live that day on the road let alone allowed him to travel and fight with them. Whenever he questioned her about Zevran and why she let him live, she'd always responded, "He serves a purpose." A chamber pot served a purpose too, but Alistair didn't exactly want to have one of those hovering about at all times.

_It's over_, he reminds himself once again. She was gone and who knows when he would see her again. He could summon her into his presence. He could demand her phylactery. What good would either of those do? Decisions had been made the prior night. Duty compelled him to stay the course. He was King of Ferelden whether he liked it or not. He had made his bed and now he must lie in it even if it is filled with fleas.


	4. I've Got Friends in Low Places

There was something both depressing and hopeful about the current state of the Ferelden. Everywhere reminders of the recent Blight marred the landscape. Homes laid in ruin. Entire villages sat decimated with their populaces depleted. Yet in the midst of such a bleak setting, there was a strong undercurrent of optimistic and unspoken possibility for improvement in restoration. The new always shined more brightly than the old did. It was refreshing, exciting and filled with potential.

Along the remains of the Imperial Highway sat Lothering. It had greatly changed since Elishka's last visit. The Chantry lay in ruins – a desiccated husk of what once was a focal point of activity. Stone walls which once stood proud and offered shelter to worshipers laid atop one another in a mish-mash of jagged pieces -- a puzzle that would not be easy to put together.

The charred remains of humble straw thatched homes liberally decorated the shores of the creek that ran through the middle of the burg. Construction had recently finished upon a new bridge, a seemingly temporary crossing given its rudimentary wooden construction.

The low hum of active work filled the air as Zevran and Elishka approached Dane's Refuge. A wry chortle emanated from Elishka as she noticed the already advanced state of repair of the local tavern. "Of course they fixed the tavern quickly," she mused while swinging a leg off the sturdy mass of her horse.

"I've come to learn you Fereldens are fond of a few key things – your mabari, war and ale," Zevran quickly quipped. "I would imagine certain vices would be quite welcome in these times."

She nodded simply. In times of trial, vices were indeed a welcome escape. The hidden meaning in Zevran's comment not completely lost to her. She watched intently as Zevran dismounted his horse, his movements fluid and effortless. A little wickedness, a little escapism could often a tonic for the soul.

Her leather covered hand pushed the splintered wooden door of the tavern open, allowing Zevran and she entrance. The more things changed, the more they remained the same. It was as if they stepped back in time, into an alternative reality that near mimicked the past but not quite.

Bits of fresh wood collided and entwined with bits of the old along the balcony of the upper level. The stonework of the fireplace found itself covered with the scars of the recent scalding. Fresh planks of lumber had replaced the previously dirt and liquid smeared floorboards. Even the aroma of the tavern spoke of a reimagining. There had not been enough time for the stale aroma of ale to seep into the newly lain porous surfaces. The faint scent pine wafted about the air.

A loudly exclaimed, "Warden," broke Elishka's examination, her attention drawn towards the door by the larder. A familiar face brought a congenial smile to her lips. It was Barlin, the proprietor. While their relationship had not been more than proprietor to customer or employer to employee, she felt a genuine sense of happiness to see him here and alive. However, she should have known if someone were to survive such an apocalypse, it would be the rather crafty bar keep. Such a talent often came as a compliment to a willingness to engage in activities slightly to the south of the moral high ground. "Barlin, I'm happy to see you survived. How many in Lothering managed to survive the darkspawn purge?"

"A handful, my lady," Barlin answered, dipping his gaze to the ground. The topic was a bit unseemly for the man; the near extinction of local peoples was never a comfortable matter to discuss. "But those of us that managed to hide and survive are rebuilding as quickly as we can. Tales of your victory reached us here quickly. There was much rejoicing as you can imagine. Others have also started to straggle in from the countryside. Each day we find our population doubling in size." He paused, granting a rather huge grin to rise. "It's been quite good for business, as you can imagine. Every new person that arrives finds they are rich with thirst. I can hardly keep up with demand."

_Businessman to the last_.

"Yes, well, I fear I my mission here is to attempt to take those of your population willing to join me in the Wardens. Our numbers are quite few and I wish to ensure we are quite prepared should the darkspawn rear their pointy heads once again. Tell me, have any of the Chantry residents survived?"

Darkness swelled Barlin's facial features. "Not many. The Templars fought quite valiantly against the darkspawn horde that pushed through Lothering. Those that did not die immediately were taken by the horde and placed upon pikes while still alive. The mother was," his voice became quite shaky, a tremble overtaking his lower lip. A deep breath brought forth courage and he continued, "…she was brought outside the chantry and had unspeakable things done to her for all to see. I can only hope she died quickly. I..I ran and hid in the spider cave just beyond the borders of town until it seemed safe to once again return."

Rage flared in the pit of Elishka's stomach, red light flashing violent in her eyes. While Templars and those of the Chantry were not always her favorite people in the world, no one deserved that kind of treatment. Tiny hands curled into fists, the jagged nubs of tooth gnawed nails digging deep into the supple leather of her gloves. "I am sorry we were not able to stop the onslaught sooner."

She took a moment to pull herself back from the lake of anger she had found it so easy to swim in as of late and offered what little words of comfort she could find within herself to give, "You did the right thing by running. You would have been no match for the darkspawn. It is better that you lived than died." She could not blame the man for running.

A subject change was broached in an attempt to lift the depressive veil of previous conversation, "Rooms, I don't suppose you have somewhere for us to stay during our time here?"

"Uh…of course," Barlin began, his demeanor already more at ease. "I would be honored if you stayed in my room. I can comfortably sleep in the barn out back. It will seem luxurious compared to a spider cave." Aslant, he smiled. "Let me show you upstairs." He motioned with a time wrinkled hand towards the stairwell beckoning, _ladies first._

Not to have been forgotten during this entire exchange, Zevran received an over shoulder glance by Elishka. "By the way, this man is Barlin and he owns the place." She had been rude. Zevran had not entered her life until sometime after she had visited Lothering.

A crow's cackle edged out soft as Zevran's nodded his head forward in acknowledgment, "I gathered he owned the place." His attentions quickly passed to Barlin, "I thank you for your hospitality. I am Zevran."

Exhaustion pull started to take hold as they advanced toward the stairwell. It had been a long journey to Lothering – four days of riding all day and sleeping at night on the hard, cold ground. While the warmth of Zevran's body had provided her some relief from the evening's chill, she was quite happy for the prospect of sleeping in a real bed for a change.

Eyes heavy with a need for restful slumber appraised the darkened shadow of a corner along the edge of the bar closest to the stairwell. A man sat slouched within the corner. There was something familiar about his posture, about the shape of him, and about the way he watched the grouping as they ascended the stairwell.

She stopped her climb to take a moment's pause and more closely examine that man. Disheveled curls of red topped his head while an overgrown beard the same ginger hue spidered unkempt along the well chiseled lines of his jaw and face. Everything clicked suddenly in her mind. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Recognition came to her in a name.

_Cullen_.

"I know this man," she stated evenly. "He was..is..I don't know, a Templar at the Circle. I knew him during my time there." Her voice had dropped to a near whisper. "Cullen."

Any efforts she had made at subterfuge failed completely. He had heard her admission. He had heard her say his name. In a return greeting, a recognition of his own, he spoke in rasp drenched in alcohol's embrace, "Elishka."

* * *

The swill Cullen had been served was certainly not what he would quantify as top shelf. It left a bitter aftertaste in the mouth and a burning in the stomach. Each gulp of the frothy and thick beverage brought a grimace of displeasure to his face. Still, he continued to force the concoction down an all too unwilling throat. Each swallow was an exercise in self-torture that came with the promise of the slow and steady numbess that washed along his body.

He had been sitting in this spot at the tavern for what seemed days. He was a man on the run, a Templar no longer. His time at the Circle had ended the day he executed a duo of mage apprentices.

He had found them near the basement playing magic games upon the lock. There could be only one reason a mage would try to gain access to the lower levels of the Circle; they had meant to get their phylacteries and run. Those two had survived the incident at the tower. He had long expected they were abominations filled with demonic taint. His spying him near that doorway only served to condemn them in his mind. It was irrefutable evidence of their guilt and it was his duty as a Templar to cleanse them of their demons.

It had been easy to subdue them. His Templar training had served him well. His blade sliced smooth through first a neck and next an arm. The ease at which he cut down the magi only further filled him with the belief that he was doing the Maker's work. Blood spattered upon the floor and Cullen himself, bathing him in victory. He had purified the Circle, purifying his victims of their demonic slave masters.

It was Greagoir who found him standing there over the limp corpses.

_"What have you done?"_

_"I freed the Circle of two abominations." _

His dismissal occurred quickly and without much fanfare. The Knight-Commander always had a fondness for Cullen. And perhaps that was why he pushed Cullen out of the tower so quickly and bade him to run. Protection could not be given but a head start could be provided.

_"Go, my boy. Run."_

Confusion rattled his mind as he left the only home he had known since early childhood. He had done the Chantry's bidding. He had cleared the tower of two lingering abominations and for that his path was to be that of an outlaw?

He kept to the main roads either out of reckless foolishness or aimless wandering. His world stripped bare. His purpose ripped away in the execution of his holy duty. And in Lothering he eventually found himself.

He visited the Chantry first only to find it in a state of utter disrepair. There would be no comfort sought in the embrace of the familiar. The local tavern was to serve as his refuge and as the altar for his unanswered prayers and questions.

He spent his days in the dulling grip of the drink and his evenings in the barn. Magi had reduced him to sleeping in shit and swimming in ale flavored like piss.

His pew was a stool adjacent to the bar in a darkened corner of the tavern. One day proved, however, to be unlike the other three. Well into his fifth pint of whatever Barlin was calling the special of the day, she walked in.

_Elishka. _

The demons played no games with his head this time. There was no magical cage imprisoning him mind, body and soul. The aura of innocence that once shined bright and warm about her had shifted into a more somber grey. Youthful features found a hardening in experience's etchings. But it was unmistakably the same mage he had known at the tower that stepped into the tavern, a blond elf in tow.

His breath sucked in at the sight of her. The memories rushed in a torrent. They had grown up together in the Circle – him, a young associate Templar, and her, an apprentice mage. They had played as young children, gotten into trouble as teenagers, and he had been present at her Harrowing. It was his duty to slay her should she succumb to the demons of the Fade. She was so full of life and vigor but quite forbidden.

He took in the full image of her form as she stood there speaking with Barlin. Enthralled at the sight of her, the conversation between the barkeep and mage failed to register in Cullen's ears. She did not wear the robes he was accustomed to seeing upon a mage. He had never seen her in such armor before. Custom craftwork easily became apparent in the clinging manner it caressed across her body – strips of leather, laces, metal and ribbon all sewn and mixed together in an image of the exotic. And then there was the skin, exposed and pale, more than he had seen on her before outside of his dreams, outside of the demon's temptation.

_Evil__ mage_.

He had heard she survived the battle with the Archdemon. The Grey Wardens had saved the Tower. They had saved Ferelden. They called her the Hero of Ferelden. Why would she be here of all places? Why would she not be with the newly crowned King? Cullen recalled the way the man had clung close to Elishka's side at the Circle. He never left it. There was a knowing way in which Alistair watched the mage. It was intimate and filled with awe. A look into the mirror Cullen saw when he observed Alistair. It was love for the woman.

He roused himself from his mind's wanderings, trying to intently to pick up slices of their talking. "Recruits," was easy enough to overhear.

_Yes, recruits for the Grey Wardens_.

Noble causes had always been a weakness for Elishka. It was not surprising to Cullen that she might take on the banner of rebuilding her Order.

_Evil bitch mage._

A Grey Warden she might be; however, she was also one of _them._ She was his friend no longer. His lover she would never become. In the shadows he would remain, clothed in obscurity and anonymity. It was a role he was all too comfortable with playing. And Cullen watched.

There was a small part of him, however, that betrayed his initial preference, that wanted to desperately walk up to her and call her friend. He wanted to reach out and touch the silken braids atop her head. He wanted to breathe in deep the aroma of her scent. He wanted to wrap those hands of his around her neck and squeeze the brightness out of her eyes.

_Evil bitch mage_.

Mages had destroyed his life. Mages had taken everything that was important to him. Who was to say that this one was any different? If anything, she was worse. In her, he saw the forbidden. In her, he saw his own weakness. He had come so terribly close to submission in the tower. The demon's touch had been exquisite. The demon's illusion had been intoxicating and so real. The brush of her lips lingered and burned his skin in remembrance. The touch of her cheek beneath the gentle cup of his hand shocked him to the core. It had all been a fantasy, though – a ploy to possess him completely.

Darkness parted, however, a beacon of attention shined in his direction with the slow turn of her head and the intent focus of brown eyes seeking out his own. Anxiousness jolted his body, the pull of her gaze stronger than he had recalled.

Her mouth did not twist in the smile he had known. It did not move at all for some time. Only the astonished knitting of her brows betrayed any reaction to the disheveled sight of him. All to suddenly he became keenly aware of the image he must have cut – his hygiene having taken a turn of the worst with the unclean manner of his accommodations.

Disgust and excitement battled for control of Cullen as he heard her acknowledge his presence, "Cullen."

There were many things he could say in response. There were many things he wanted to scream. _Abomination. Friend. Temptress. Run away from me. _ "Elishka," was all he could muster in response.


	5. Reality Bites

Elishka had seen Cullen and now nothing could be done about it. He knew she would approach him and she did. He knew she would take a seat at his side and she did. "What are you doing here," she asked with a somewhat quizzical look.

"I left the Circle..."

_For killing your kind_.

Something acrid underlined the already aberrant manner in which he sat – half bent against the bar, muck covered digits clutching tight around the trunk of his mug. She was so close. He had but to lift a hand and he could touch her.

_Mage…._

His body bristled. It was an ever-present word echoed repeatedly in his mind. An infection that started with Uldred's attack on the Circle continued to spread with each passing day he spent in banishment. He had grown to hate the magic spinners with every ounce of his being.

Elishka's eyes flitted downward – a gesture rich with quiet thought. Her hand reached forward and lightly touched the top of his. "It is nice to see a familiar face," she said in a genuine offer of what appeared to be friendship.

Electric fire seared his flesh, his hand withdrawn rapid fire in an involuntary manner. The speaking he expected. The touching he was not prepared for.

_EVIL MAGE_. _She's trying to bewitch you._

"Yes, well much has changed hasn't it?" It was the understatement of the year and a comment riddled with many possible meanings. "You travel with only the elf?" He made passing mention of Zevran, motioning up to the balcony. "Is he, too, a Warden?" It was small talk at its best, but all he found himself capable of.

An internal battle raged on – both sides wished nothing more than to lay claim the small mage before him. His hands around her neck or his hands around her waist, the dueling desires clashed. The voices were screaming for violence while his heart cried for something else all together.

"Just Zevran and me for now. He is not a Warden, no. There are still only two of us in Ferelden." She did not speak the other's name. "The job of rebuilding the Order has fallen upon me. I came here seeking those that might be willing to join me. You could use a bath you know?" It was a teasing comment perhaps meant to lighten the mood.

_Smother her. Take your hand and snuff the light out. Let the last thing she smells be the shit on your hands._

"I suppose that I could. I have been sleeping in the barn. Luxury accommodations aren't exactly plentiful right now." Anger and embarrassment were hidden behind a forced smile. He was more than aware of his stench. "I've been a bit lost since I left the Circle," he confessed.

"Lost? Why did you leave?"

She did not know. How could she? She did not exactly keep up with Circle business as far as he knew. Though she was no longer a mage of the Circle, he had kept tabs on her, be it out of old habit or some other reason hidden deep in his subconscious.

He chewed on a possible response. He could have told her why he really left, but what would have happened then? Would she have attacked him? Would he have killed her? Would she have killed him? He did not know. He honestly found himself not caring. One way or another, the matter would be settled. The newly lain floor would run slick with blood, Templar or mage. And it would be done.

She sat there, watching him thoughtfully, genuinely giving off all appearances that she cared. Her compassion and the many scenarios running through his head were entirely too much. "I…I need to go."

_Now before I do something I'll regret_.

For he did care; more than he wished to admit.

The stool tumbled to the ground as he propelled himself away from the bar and away from her. There was no lack of dramatic flair in his hastened departure. A table connected with his hip. A foot dug deep into a floorboard knot causing him to near unbalance his footing. The door was almost knocked off the hinges as he made his escape leaving Elishka sitting there atop her stool.

* * *

Elishka's mind overran with thought as she started once again up the stairwell. What had made Cullen so suddenly seek to be elsewhere? They had spoken after Uldred and he had never shown such a reaction to her presence before. Something must have happened to him. He was a shell of the man she used to know. How had he been lost? There were far too many questions and far too few answers. What could have happened after she left? Curiosity mandated she investigate. It was apparent to her that there was more to the story than he just left the Circle. Templars did not just leave.

At one time, she had felt great affection for Cullen – the kind one might dote upon a brother. She had suspected he might have feelings for her but knew nothing would ever come of it. Nothing could come of it. His dedication to his vows had never been in question. Cullen was nothing if not diligent in his duties as a Templar. She had toyed with the idea once or twice, but never thought to do anything about it. What they had was unique in the Tower and she did not wish to ruin it by pressing matters that should never have been pressed.

His confession of romantic feelings for her that night had somewhat caught her off guard. It was one thing to suspect and an entirely different thing to know -- to have heard it with your own ears. It was something she should not have heard and she never spoke to Cullen of it after Uldred was defeated. Rather, she pretended it never happened to save him and her some embarrassment.

Zevran skulked in the shadows of the upstairs landing, waiting on Elishka. She looked to him with a disapproving glare. "It's not polite to spy like that, Zev," she chided. She had always hated when Zevran went assassin-spy on her. It caused her to look over her shoulder with squinty eyes. She trusted him implicitly, but that did not mean she wanted him to hear every single private comment she might share with another.

"Spy? No." Zevran's tongue swept quickly over his lips. "I was merely waiting on you to enter the room. I was too afraid to go in alone," he offered in playful jest. "My dear, it would seem to me that your old friend is shall we say a bit moon addled." It was a casual observation.

"He is different, yes." Cullen was completely changed. The man she had spoken with downstairs looked nothing like the man she had known at the Circle. His confinement during Uldred's occupation had not been an easy one. He became broken, pieces of himself lost.

"And you intend to help him." Zevran's tone lacked a questioning lilt. It was more statement of fact than query. "You never hesitate to pick up strays do you?" His head tilted to the side at a thoughtful angle.

Slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I picked you up, did I not?" A tit for a tat. Zevran was not the only person that could tease.

"Touché, my dear. Point taken. Though I am not quite sure how much I appreciate you using the same line of me you used on dear Alistair." A well time verbal riposte would always go appreciated by the Antivan. "Shall we to bed, my little Warden?"

Seeing Cullen and their proceeding conversation had temporarily caused Elishka to forget her own exhaustion. One mention of a bed and the weary feeling in her travel tired bones began to set in once again. "Only if you do not hog the covers. You've been quite the blanket whore."

Rich laughter poured forth, liquid smooth. "A whore, I shall always be. I did inherit that from my mother's side of the family, after all. A blanket whore, though? No. I assure you I have no interest in having all the blankets to myself. I merely wish to gaze upon the magnificence of your body as you lie there and sleep. You cannot fault me for being such an appreciator of beauty. We Antivans are nothing if not connoisseur of the fine arts."

The thick and unrelenting lascivious intent of Zevran's comment only caused Elishka to shake her head. She was far too tired and had far too much on the brain to continue their lingual duel even if she was the one to start it. "Like I said, do not hog all the covers."

* * *

Sunlight assaulted his eyes sharp and cruel as Cullen pushed his way out of the tavern. He had been inside for some time and had become accustomed to the dim lighting of the Refuge. A hand swept upward to press against the now sweat soaked brim of his forehead in an effort to temporarily shield his eyes from the harsh rays shining down from above. It was not right for it to be so bright outside on such a gloomy day.

An image in insanity he knew he must have painted as he ran toward the outskirts of the village. He had no particular destination in mind. He just had to get away. He had to get away from her. He had to get away from what the voices wanted him to do.

_Kill the mage. Mages are the true blight._

The voices command was strong and unyielding. He succumbed once before to their siren's call. This time, however, something felt different. At the Circle, his decision had been easy. Doubt had not entered his mind or colored his judgments. The path had been clear and righteous. Abominations, mages, they all had to die. As a Templar, it was his sacred charge.

Seeing her, talking to her, being so close, it all told him that these voices were wrong. They had to be. This mage, the one they screamed to destroy, she was not a bad. She was not evil. She could not be. He had loved her. He had known her for so long. He watched her survive her Harrowing and escape the cut of his blade. Everything inside him told him she could not have fooled him. He so desperately wanted them to be wrong. No, not this mage.

If the voices were wrong about Elishka, that would mean they could have been wrong about the two at the Circle. Could he have taken innocent lives that day in the tower?

He ran until he could run no longer. The shakes began to overtake his body as he found himself near a body of water. No matter how still he tried to stand and steady himself, the tremors continued.

_Lyrium withdrawal_.

He had been without his usual lyrium dosage since he left the Circle. Templars spoke from time to time of what happened when an individual went without lyrium for long periods. Often, they went insane. The pain of withdrawal would all but cripple the addict, leaving them catatonic, trapped somewhere between reality and a dream state. It was not quite the same as being in the Fade, but almost as horrifying to a Templar.

An acerbic chortle escaped his mouth as he fell to the ground, knees giving way under the trembling. Either the voices or the lyrium would be the death of him. How high the mighty have fallen. Once a noble Templar, he was now reduced to a crumbled mass of man kneeling in a slick of mud. The smell of his own descent assaulted his nostrils – a mixture of misery, feces, rotten ale and days of unwash.

Mud caked fingers dragged vicious through the gnarled mass of tight red curls atop his head, pulling at what length was there in failed attempt to extract the demons yelling inside his head. If he could just pull hard enough maybe they would leave him. But no amount of effort could evict his unwanted passengers.

A low, guttural scream birthed. There was no point of light at the end of the tunnel for him. He was a man without a God. He had been cast aside -- tossed away like yesterday's garbage for what he had thought at the time was the Maker's work. His prayers had gone unheard, only the new draught of ale ever answering his call. He saw no possible way to surmount the tall edifice constructed of his problems. He was a failure, murderer and coward. And he let her see him this way. He was his own worst enemy.

He reached to his side, clutching at the cool iron handle of his longsword. He could not stand it any longer. An eye for an eye. An end to his pain. A coward's death for a coward. He made fast work of propping the sword up between two river rocks – a primitive execution device constructed. With great effort, he pushed himself off the ground and faced the gleaming blade. This was how they would find him, harpooned against his own sword. It was not a heroic death or even a glamorous one. He accepted this fact as he bent forward to end his own life.

As he leaned with great force run himself through, he felt the sword give away and slide along the material of his shirt, only grazing the skin beneath. Gravity, his weight and the ill design of his death machine had other things in mind for the ex-Templar. He fell atop a flattened blade, propelled by the force of his girth and connected with a resounding splat as he landed inside a pool of mud. His head found target in a rock just outside the outer brim of the mud puddle. Searing pain shot from the tip of his head to the end of his toes. Bright light blinded him and was soon overtaken by a cool and vast darkness.


	6. Nocturnal thoughts

_Lips brushed gentle against the slender slope of her pale neck. Alistair paused a moment, pressing his nose into the crook, fully taking in the scent of her. She always smelled a bit of vanilla. Even if they were camping outdoors and killing darkspawn, she insisted on the small luxury of a perfume. It was a scent he had always loved even more so now. _

_One of his best childhood memories involved a special cake rich with vanilla flavoring that the Arl had prepared for Alistair's fifth birthday. It was the first time he had eaten such a confectionery delight. While his base needs for food and water were attended to, he had not lived in the lap of luxury as the main residents of Castle Redcliffe. Sugary treats had been the rarest of rewards._

_Each bite made him feel as if he would absolutely burst. He had never tasted anything quite so divine in his life. There would be many more firsts in his life, but the first time he had such a cake was one he knew he would carry with him for eternity. He gobbled down the whole treat all by himself, chunks of cake littering his hair and smatterings of frosting coating his clothing and face. It took a few buckets of cold water to wash the cakey residue away._

_It was this rich smell that he took in with a deep breath and held, letting the taste of it fill him. Only when life's breath required it, did he release his hold upon the ambrosia with a low sigh. He held her tight within his grasp, hands wrapped around her waist, tugging her more closely next to the heat of his body. A perfect fit, he thought of the way their bodies seemed to meld together under the fur skin covers of their bedding._

_The low rustle of activity was easily heard outside their tent. People were awake and already making preparations to pack up the camp for the day. The Landsmeet was upon them. He knew she would make him King. It was a moment he was dreading for multiple reasons. Deep down, he realized a decision he did not - could not - make was charging head fast in his direction. They were nearing the final act and all he wanted was a longer intermission before the inevitable came to pass. "Can't we camp for one more day," he pleaded. "Denerim and Eamon can wait." Teeth tugged teasingly at the lower portion of one of her ears. It was an attempt, a feeble one, to try to cling to the moment and escape the reality awaiting them outside the canvas confines of their tent._

_She shifted beneath the blankets, twisting her body to press languid against his. A gentle smile rose slowly as she leaned forward and took his mouth with hers, a gesture he was all too eager to accept willingly. It was a teasing embrace ripe with possibility. "The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get on with the rest of our lives. You've told me before how rude it is to keep that Archdemon waiting. I would hate to be called rude." Her hand drifted down the slope of Alistair's side laying torso gingerly, taking in the peaks and valleys of his musculature. "Now, get out of bed," she commanded as that same hand found an easy target in the naked body of his underside. Smack._

_"Heeeeeeeeey," he whined through grin touched lips. "You are a mean, mean woman…and tease." Using his weight advantage, he steamrolled Elishka and forced her to lie beneath him. She gave little protest to his mischief rich maneuvering and wrapped the length of her legs around the upper portion of his thighs, pinning him against her._

_"I can't have people calling me a tease either, now can I?" Her words sealed the deal. It wasn't the day's delay he had hoped for, but it was a small respite all the same._

_Seriousness encroached on his expression, his head lowered, beckoning a kiss, "Whatever happens today, just know that I love you."_

Something moist and sticky clung to his skin, awakening him from his slumber. The scent of vanilla tugged at his nose, filling his nostrils with an almost overpoweringly sweet stench. Elbows propped against the bed, aiding Alistair's rise into a seated position. Covers were tossed aside. "Maker's balls," he mumbled as he realized the root cause of his discomfort. Balls were the problem, though not the Maker's. He had not had one of these dreams since his days at the Chantry. In fact, he was not aware grown men could even have them.

"Yes, Alistair, now you've done it. Great piece of gossip for the servants. Lightening strike me down, now." His face flushed red. Embarrassment propelled him to quickly unsheet his bed and toss the soiled bedding into an armoire in his room. Out of sight, out of mind. It didn't even occur to him that someone may still find the evidence of the mind crime later. All he cared about was people not immediately seeing his lack of control and shame.

Only after the evidence of his nocturnal emissions was successfully hidden did it really dawn upon him what he had just dreamed. It was the last moment's he had spent with Elishka alone. A profound and deep frown formed. Now even his subconscious was rebelling against him.

_Hello, did you not get the note_?

He knew he had done what must be done. He needed an heir. And Elishka, she was a Grey Warden and mage. It was an impossible situation. She had told him he would be King and surely he could do whatever he wanted, decorum and rules be damned. They had played hard and fast with the rules up to this point, why stop now? What good was it to be King if he could not make some of his own rules?

Too worried the people would have enough issue with a royal bastard taking the throne, too worried about displeasing the Arl, Alistair went against Elishka for the first time since their meeting and took the path of least resistance. 'Coward' was the word she spat at him that day before taking her leave. He was beginning to believe that maybe she was right after all.

It was a morning for learning – grown men do have wet dreams, he was a coward, and he was going to order that vanilla and anything that even so much as reeks of the scent be expressly forbidden in the palace.

* * *

"They found him just outside of town, unconscious and lying in a puddle of mud. And seeing as you know him, we thoughts we'd bring him to you," the men explained to Elishka as they placed a comatose Cullen atop the bed. If it was at all possible, he looked even worse than when he fled from her the previous day. A blood crusted wound splattered gruesome along a corner of his forehead. It was a deep cut that had long ago stopped oozing blood, but nonetheless gave off appearances of still bleeding. Mud caked the front portion of his body, weighing down his clothing. They were definitely beyond saving at this point. A smeared and dried line of blood mixed with the muck down the center of his shirt. It was a curious looking mark.

Carefully, she pushed aside the garment to reveal the jagged line of a superficial flesh wound running vertical along his torso. "Any idea what did this," she questioned, gesturing to the laceration.

"None, though we did find him laying on this." A Templar's sword was brought into view.

_Cullen's_.

She could recognize that sword anywhere. She had seen enough Templar's swords during her time at the Circle.

"It smells worse in here than a dwarven whore house after Oghren went to visit," exclaimed Zevran, as he sauntered into the room. His advance shortened as the revolting aroma hit his nostrils. Rapid fire, he shot his hand to his mouth and nose to shield his olfactory system from the vapors emitted by Cullen. "When I spoke to you of picking up strays, I had no idea it would mean picking up something that reeked more than Alistair." The Antivan's delicate sense-abilities were in an uproar at the prone man laid atop the bed.

Protests and _the _name went ignored, instead orders were given, "Get me some water, soap and bandages." Elishka was wearing her all business, 'no joke for you' hat. She would do what she could to help Cullen.

"My little Warden, I fear there is not enough soap in all of Denerim to rid us of that stench." Zevran tried to stifle the gag pushing stubborn at his throat. "But this quest I shall take, if you so wish, even if it means I must travel to Orlais to get it. I am nothing, if not a man whom likes his challenges." Needing nothing more than such an excuse, Zevran removed himself from the room as quickly as he appeared.

"For your troubles." Elishka placed a sovereign in the hand of one of the men. She had hoped the money would hasten their departure. She was going to attempt to heal Cullen and really did not want a strange audience staring at her while she performed magic. She might have been the Hero of Ferelden, but she was still a mage. Common people were stupidly paranoid about mages and she simply did not want to deal with that on top of everything else.

It was not a cue that went unnoticed by the helpful gentlemen. Each dipped their heads and mumbled a quiet, "Thank you," before drifting out of the room.

She could feel the pulse of life clawing inside Cullen. He was alive, but just barely. Given his appearance, there was no telling how long he had been outside before they found him. Elishka was not as gifted a healer as Wynne, but she had learned a few compulsory skills along the way to keep in her 'just in case' basket of tricks. There were a few times along the adventure trail that said skills had come in quite handy. She had hoped this might be one of those times.

Magic was far more than the simple speaking of incantations. A mage possessed certain properties that allowed for the successful weaving of spells. Elishka, while not the best and most powerful mage in Ferelden, was a touch more gifted than most, a fact she was quite proud of. A breath of concentration was drawn inward and expelled as she murmured, "Vigoratus."

Blue waves of energy tickled at the tips of her fingers, spiraling about their length. A snaking of cyan rays extended toward Cullen's head wound and soon enveloped the entirety of his body in a cocoon of healing warmth. The whole spell lasted for but a second. She had done what she could for him with her magic. The hard part, however, would be the waiting. No amount of magic she possessed could make the passage of time go faster.


	7. Time to Wake Up

Sharp. Jab jab. Penetrating pain radiated along the insides of Cullen's skull serving as some kind of all sadomasochistic alarm clock. Consciousness crashed in. He was not quite dead yet even if he wished, he was. A deep groan accompanied the heavy rise and fall of a deeply exhaled breath. "Ow."

Closed eyes – trepidatious – opened slightly at a snail's pace to take a sneak peek of the world outside lidded shelter. The dim light of a candle offered slight illumination to an otherwise dark room. Half-open eyes had great difficulty in piercing the shadow of the room. It took what seemed eons before his vision adjusted to the faint lighting.

As objects began to come into focus, he realized he was lying in a bed in what appeared to be a small bedroom. The accommodations were nothing if not simple. _An inn_. The sparsely decorated room was devoid of personal items and had a neutral and impersonal feel about it.

_Why am I here? Where am I?_

A memory tickled at his thoughts.

_You fell on your sword or failed to fall on your sword, idiot._

The gruff body of a laugh oozed slowly from his mouth followed almost immediately by an additional, "Ow". His head felt like someone was stabbing a million little needles into his scalp. Movement, even that as slight as a laugh, caused the pain to flare to new levels of ow-i-tude.

Shaking fingers rose up to brush along the side of head. _Ow. _The right side of his head was especially tender – the huge body of a knot easily felt to be protruding from the usually smooth slope of his brow. Pressure placed upon Mt. Booboo elicited a girlish yip from Cullen. The bump was the epicenter of his suffering. That much had been clear.

Curiosity and a great deal of effort pried Cullen from the bed; each movement away from the bed punctuated with a moment's rest. Unsteady steps resulted in a staggering gait to rival even the drunkest of men. His quest was to get to the mirror he had managed to make out across the room during his initial lay of the land search.

The reflection in the mirror was not a glamorous one. Bruises splotched his normally clear complexion. Bright red and standing at full attention, the welt along the right upper portion of his head served as a beacon to the eyes. He once again raised a hand to touch the rolling expanse of the mound, taking greater care this time not to press down lest the volcano erupt once again in a flare of pain.

A murmur of remembrance creased his mouth, "Of course." His pitiful attempt at ending it all failed. He must have hit his head when he fell to the ground and blacked out -- the perfect result to an imperfect end. He was as successful in death as he had been in life.

The instrument of his failure sat there against the dresser, taunting him with its happy shiny ways. A grimace spread across his expression as he picked up the sword and stared down at the weapon. Maybe he could be more successful a second time around? The metal felt icy against his fingers as they traced the sharpened edge of the blade. If at first you do not succeed…

No, he would not try it again. The moment had overwhelmed him. Too easily he wallowed in his own depression and failed to see that suicide was not the answer. He was not the one that deserved to die. In a moment of weakness he succumbed. He would be stronger. He would…

_Kill the mage_.

The voices reemerged in his mind, insistent with their machinations of destruction and death.

"No," he near yelled in some attempt to silence their chanting. His head shook, his temper inflamed at his rebelling subconscious. "No," was repeated once again and he found himself falling to the floor with a thud, his sword still gripped firm in hand. He would be stronger. He would resist. The screaming in his mind needed silencing. He needed relief. Fingers wrapped about the blade, midway up the shaft, and pressed the sharpened tip against the flesh of his belly. A single thrust, a single push of the sword by his own hand and all would be quiet.

Light spilled into the room; the door opened in a quick motion. Standing in the frame was the same elf Cullen had noticed with Elishka. Cullen might have described this particular elf as that of a 'fancy' man if it was not for the aura of danger that clung possessive about the man's being. As a child he had been warned of stranger danger, he could not help but recall those lessons and pay some heed to them at the sight of spry blond.

There was something mocking in the tilt of the blonde man's smirk, his hazel eyes peering down at Cullen. "Do you always play with your sword in the dark," dripped tart from the man's now more broadly smiling lips. His glance dipped downward for a flash – an acknowledgement of Cullen's nudity something that had completely escaped Cullen until that very moment.

Words sputtered forth, all nerves and embarrassment. His actions of just moment's ago forgotten. "No, I don't." The sword fell to the ground with a soft clunk. Adrenaline of the timid propelled Cullen from the floor back into the bed where he could he once again lay claim to modesty and cover his body with covers. "I..uh…"

"..wish to know what happened," the elf offered, ending Cullen's sentence. "Yes, well, you were found head first in a puddle of mud. Men brought you here. Elishka healed you and cleaned you up as best she could. You've been asleep for about two days." The story was recounted as if Zevran was bored with the telling of it. "I am Zevran by the way. Friends call me Zev. So you, you may call me Zevran." This was not a friendship meet. The playful mood the elf adorned upon entering the room had been cast aside in favor of a more serious demeanor.

"Oh," was all Cullen could muster in response. His mind latched onto 'cleaned you up'. Her hands had been upon him when he was unconscious.

_She touched me_.

It did not matter that it was not sensual thing to wash a man covered in animal feces and dirt. Heat rushed to his face, the reddish of his cheeks no doubt betraying the flush of his excitement.

_You know you have to kill her. There is no telling what she did to you with her magic._

"Yes, well, I will let her know you are awake. I believe Elishka wanted to speak to you," was spoken flatly, nothing waggish in Zevran's tone. And as quickly as he arrived, Zevran left, letting the door close heavy behind him. Cullen, once again, was left alone in the room – just he and the voices in his head that had begun to scream anew for vengeance, for death, for her.

* * *

He shut the door with a bit more forced than intended, his own frustration having taken hold of his movements briefly.

_This one I do not trust_.

Zevran's senses were afire with warning. There was something about this particular man that he did not like. Zevran had spent many years fine-tuning his ability to read people with but a glance. It was a necessary talent for all of the best assassins. He was nothing if not one of the best. He had failed but only once in his career. And in hindsight, he had not really considered it much of a failure given all it had brought him.

The night before he had stood over Cullen's bed, a freshly sharpened dagger twirled back and forth between the nimble length of his fingers. It would have been so easy to slice the throat of the slumbering man. What was one more death? One more notch on the dagger handle? No one would miss him. He tried to end his own life and failed. Zevran would have been committing an act of charity by helping finish the deed. He had killed men for much less in the past.

She would miss him for whatever reason, though. This ex-Templar was yet another broken man missing a puzzle piece Elishka seemed to think she possessed. No lost cause was too lost for the little mage Warden. It escaped his mind why she seemed to surround herself with such wounded and damaged men. First there was Alistair – a man that couldn't put on his own boots unless Elishka first showed him how. Now there was Cullen who seemed equally inept. And of course, there was himself. He had his own internal wounds that had yet to heal even if he had not shared them with her.

"We were friends," she had told Zevran. _Friends_. It was a word he knew all too well. It defined their relationship. He was more than happy to straddle the blurred line between friendship and pursuits more slippery with Elishka; however, he feared with the entry of this other man, that line may become a bit more solid and impassible. The impassioned way in which Cullen watched Elishka, the way he blushed at the mention of the attention paid to him while he was unconscious, these things had not gone unnoticed by Zevran. He saw that look on a man once before -- Alistair. These ex-Templars and their mage lust, it was frustrating and causing him to etch wrinkles into his wondrously smooth brow.

"He's awake." It was a bland statement at best, little enthusiasm to be found in the utterance. He did as commanded and nothing more.

* * *

Knock knock. She tapped at the door lightly – a warning: Here comes Elishka. The door gave way beneath her gentle push and opened wide. Stale air filled its depths, the byproduct of Cullen's quarantine. "You need some light in here."

_And I need some air._

She pushed the rough cloth of the curtains aside just enough to allow a sliver of outdoor light to gain entry into the room. The window was opened as well; a gust of fresh air spilled inside rapidly.

She didn't give Cullen an opportunity to speak before she began her interrogation. She had things to find out, things she must know. His speaking without prompting would only get in the way. "Why did you try to kill yourself?" She turned, searching him out. He lied along the bed, blankets drawn about him up to his neck in an overtly annoying display of modesty. She waited on him to answer, a pinched expression of the very serious darkening her features.

Cullen's teeth began to gnaw at the lower portion of his mouth. "I don't know," was all he could muster in meager response. It did not take the skills of a professional interrogator to sense the lie in the statement.

Lips pressed together firm, the fib sour and hard to digest. Elishka moved toward the bed, taking up post at the foot end. Her arms crossed over the expanse of her chest disapprovingly. "I don't believe you, so out with it." Her voice was stern and commanding. She could play the part required of her when necessary. Her time in the Grey Wardens had instilled in her the confidence of leadership and a very, very bossy voice.

Shoulders dipped, defeated. "I killed two mages at the Circle because the voices in my head told me to do it. I thought they were abominations that survived Uldred." He sunk further down into the bed as if trying to dig an escape hole in the mattress with his backside. His discomfort and fear at her judgment undisguised.

She had catalogued a list of excuses she might hear. That, however, was not on the list. Of all the Templars at the Circle, he was one of the last she ever thought might go rogue. Cullen's explanation caught her more than a touch off guard. She was unable to hide the shock that shot bright across her features. _He did what?_ "And they just let you go?" Her voice took a higher pitch further betraying her astonishment at the revelation.

Cullen shook his head in the negative. "No, Greagoir did. I don't know what he told the others. He told me to leave and that he couldn't protect me on this one." Regret seemed to weigh him down and she couldn't help but feel it should. It could have been… No.

"Of course he did. You certainly are a loyal bunch." Elishka had no trouble believing the Knight-Commander would hold the life of a mage second to that of a templar. "Do you still hear the voices?" Did she still have a crazy man in her midst? Or was he reformed somehow? She needed to know just what level of insane she had on her hands.

"Yes," he whispered almost apologetically.

Elishka found herself speechless. Discomfort and a veil of awkwardness cloaked her. She had dealt with many different situations over the last year, but this was a first. She had never had someone tell her that they had committed murder because voices told them to do so. What was a suitable response to something like that?

_Oh that's wonderful. The more company the better!_

_Um, well I hope those hitchhiking mind friends of yours don't eat a lot. _

_Make sure they wipe their feet before coming in. _

She straightened her posture and put on her professional hat – the one with the tassel. "I healed your wounds. You should rest, though, as I'm not the best healer. And I'll have some lyrium brought up for you. I'm sure you need it by now. I'm going to let you get your rest."

_And get the hell away from all the awkwardness. _


	8. A Cup Half Full

Cullen convalesced in that tiny and dark room for a week before he was strong enough to venture outside. The head wound, while not outwardly horrific, had made for a longer recovery than anticipated. Elishka was often a visitor to his room, though her visits were brief. Their conversations usually confined to: 'How are you doing' and 'Do you need anything?'

Though she never said anything, she made no effort to conceal his confession had weighed heavy on her. A palpable tension quaked in the room whenever she was present - be it the stiff manner in which she would hand him food and water or the avoidance game she played with her gaze. Whenever he tried to capture her glance, her own would deftly skitter away and find somewhere else in the room to focus. She could easily identify all the splintered planks in the wall by memory.

It really did not surprise her the day they rode into town – a posse of Circle magi and Templars. There was only one reason such a group would travel together; they were on a hunt. What had surprised her, though, were the words that shot out her mouth in the midst of the inevitable standoff that occurred outside Dane's Refuge. They had come for Cullen. The magi wanted justice for their slain compatriots. As for the Templars, she had only heard of two ex-Templars in her life. Addiction to lyrium and the brotherhood of the 'pillow fight' kept Templars firmly in their place, at the feet of the Chantry.

_I invoke the Right of Conscription_.

The words shot out before she could even recognize saying them. Her own shock mixed with that of the revenge bent audience. She could make anyone a Grey Warden and there was nothing anyone could do to stop her. Not the Chantry, not the First Enchanter, not a murder of Templars, not the King, no one could stop her. Chalk one up in the win column for Elishka. Begrudgingly, the rabid lynch mob left Lothering – the prized pig for their Templar roast unattainable.

Her victory was short-lived, however. She would have to tell Mr. Voices in his head she invoked the Right. She idly wondered how the voices would take such news. In a moment of darkness, she found the light, good humor touching her mouth in smile for the first time in what felt like weeks.

* * *

_She will make him a Warden_.

Anger and perhaps even jealousy flashed hot within Zevran as he heard her invoke her right as a Grey Warden. She would have this ex-Templar, this mage killer in her ranks. He could appreciate the irony of objecting to a killer joining the Wardens. It was a cherry he happily plucked – this tolerance for murderers in her midst. But still, it did not help deaden the sting that she would ask this weak-willed creature to share her fate and bond in blood.

She had confessed the ritual to him one night at camp. She felt he needed to know for he would witness men and women die. Grey Warden mascot and delicious piece of arm candy he was more than content to be. He did not wish to welcome death in a cup when there were much more glorious ways to meet one's end, assassin's death wish or no. There was something to be said about knowing the odds and placing bets accordingly. He wished his death to come from the good (or not so good) fight and not from a single sip of poisonous blood. To die in your sleep, even if it was a demon-ravaged nightmare of a slumber, seemed entirely unseemly to the elf.

Still, a part of him nagged green that she had never asked if he would join her in such a fellowship. Did she not feel he was deserving of such an honor? Did she not wish to risk his life? One of these options was much preferable to the other. Zevran had no answer to a question.

The unknowing began to seep acidic in the pit of his stomach. Just as there were facets of his life she would never be privy to, she had parts of hers he would be denied. Why such things bothered him, he did not know. Secrets were as much a part of his life as the silken touch of a woman or the warm slice of his blade against pliant flesh in death's kiss.

The impenetrable barrier of Warden-hood was the one thing that gave Alistair an advantage over him during their courtship dueling for the mage's attentions. For surely, what else could have kept the woman from resisting his charms for so long? Wardens shared a bond with one another. Now another ex-Templar would have direct conduit to this connection should he survive the Joining.

_I should have killed him when I had the chance._

* * *

Why Elishka had conscripted Cullen, he would never know. He was both mortified and shocked when Elishka told him she had claimed him for the Wardens to keep the hungry dogs of vengeance at bay. Given the distant way she had been acting since his grand admission, he honestly felt she would be eager to ditch him at the first available opportunity. It would have been for the best. The voices had continued to chant wishes rich with malicious intent whenever she was near him. He was finding it harder and harder to silence their call and ignore their pleas.

When it was explained that the Joining could kill him, Cullen felt a glimmer of relief and hope. Maybe the deed would finish him off. He listened as she told him not all that took part in it survived to tell the tale. Just she survived her own Joining. He prayed the Maker would heed his final prayers and give him the release he sought.

When his time came to take the chalice in his hands and drink deep from within, he eagerly took it and drew the cup to his mouth, drawing in the blood with a quick swallow. At first, nothing came, only the acrid aftertaste of the darkspawn nectar coated his mouth with its promises of death and demonic birth.

The reprieve lasted but seconds. A javelin of torment stabbed vicious deep inside the innards of his gut, flooring him. Pain and sorrow wracked the entirety of his body as he fell, a crumbled mass of contorted limbs and anguish. Deep, guttural, the scream rose and exploded. Visions of cannibalizing mobs feasting on the flesh of innocents, the rape of women and men, and the mass genocide of entire villages rang through his mind as his system absorbed the viscous fluid. It was more horrifying and illuminating than he had imaged even possible. He found himself a man trapped in a living nightmare – the images so vivid he could smell the copper fumes of spilled blood and charred meat deep within his nostrils.

His eyes opened to a new reality. Any naivete he had previously held about the ways of the world had completely dissipated. He had always known there were evils in the world. There was knowing and then there was _knowing_. Something about the images burned in his mind made all those previous 'evils' seem less important, less scary.

In a single draw, he grew to understand the motivation behind Elishka's actions at the Circle and all she had done since. She was not evil. There were far more frightening things in Thedas than abominations and mages. Those _things_, those _monsters _were the evil that should keep Templars up at night. For the first time in a long time, the voices grew silent and had nothing more to say.


	9. Pity Party

_Elishka sat quiet, her train of thought lost deep within the flicker of flame. The familiar touch of strong hands cupped the narrow peaks of her shoulders, pressing down in gentle massage. A soft smile sprouted happy as she turned her gaze – a quick glance over the shoulder -- to the man squatting behind her, Alistair. _

_His grin ripe with boyish charm, he shivered in an exaggerated manner. No fine actor would he ever become. "Come to bed. I'm so cold." A bit of whine mixed with a little slice of the cheese. _

_Fingers unfurled from their entwined grasp of a knee as Elishka shifted slightly at the waist to give her hand easier access to Alistair's chest. The soft caress of her touch brushed along the front of his shirt, finding the outline of a nipple. "I can see that."_

"_Oh that's just cruel." Puppy dog eyes peered down at the small woman. His lower lip jutted outward in a mock pout._

_An easy target the lip made, she leaned into him and took the tender flesh between her teeth and tugged gently. "Then take me to bed already."_

_Quick motions were made and the woman scooped into his arms. Alistair carried Elishka to their tent._

_In the shadow of a tree, blanketed in familiar darkness, Zevran watched the pair. _

* * *

It was a familiar campsite – the fire ring from their previous visit remained where they left it. The newly lit fire raged atop the charred embers of a predecessor. Knees curled to her chest, Elishka sat quiet and alone, staring at the flames.

Sadness crept in as if on cue. The quiet times at night when she sat in front of the fire, alone, were when she held the pity party. She was always the guest of honor at these shindigs. Frequent guests included the 'What Ifs' and 'If Onlys'. Those two never missed a gathering. It was small comfort that the 'flood works' had stopped rsvp'ing and no longer elected to attend.

She drew in a deep breath – the taste of her own self-disgust filling her mouth and lungs. What good was a pity party without a little self-hatred too? She was turning into a simpering female – the exact type of woman that she had always looked down upon. These women lived and breathed at the will of a man. Does he love me? Does he want me? The answers to these questions dictated their moods and state of mind. Their lives were not their own. For all her posturing, for all her Hero of Ferelden-ness, she was turning into one of these women as she allowed Alistair's denial of affection to continue to cloud her being and she found herself unable to stop the transformation.

Her head dipped, forehead connecting lightly with the upper peak of her knees. The party was in full swing.

The familiar touch of nimble hands gate crashed, pressing firm into slumped shoulders. No one invited a masseuse to enjoy the festivities. Surprised, her body jolted. So wrapped up in her own misfortune, she had not heard anyone approach her. There was no need to turn around, though. Only one man would be so bold as to interrupt her downward spiral into woe-is-me-ville. "Zev."

* * *

To become a successful assassin, it took far more than the ability to kill. If it was so simple, the assassin's trade would not have been nearly as profitable. The cockiness and arrogance Zevran displayed was founded in the truth of his talent. He was good and he knew it and was not afraid to put his skills on display.

While it was true the Crows took in children at a young age to train to become members of the order, it was also true that they did not take just any children. These children had to exhibit certain characteristics to be desirable – specific niches within the Crows needed filling. Some skills could be taught – how to skirt the grey line of morality, the skillful use of a weapon, and the coquettish tricks of seduction. Others were a bit more difficult to teach without some prior innate ability. One of these talents was the ability to watch and observe, a talent of which Zevran was extremely adept.

In an effort to get to know his travel mates better, Zevran had made it a habit to skulk the umbrae of their various campsites. Enveloped in shadow, he would watch his companions – measure them up and make detailed notes in each of the permanent records he kept within the cataloguing of his mind. Many things were observed over time and noted: personal habits, individual pet peeves, favorite and least favorite foods. All jotted down mentally just in case.

After everyone went to his or her night's slumber, Elishka would always venture out to the fire. The 'vulnerable hour' he dubbed it. At first, he watched her to try to understand the person that spared his life when he was so undeserving of such charity. It had been his intent to die at the hand of the Warden not to live by those very same hands instead.

Over his times of watching and their many conversations, something else had been born than mere curiosity. Unguarded, Elishka appeared so much tinier during this 'private' time than out in the field of battle. It was a glimpse into the soft chewy center of an otherwise impossible to crack nut. The uncomfortable taint of fond feelings began its infestation. It tasted a bit of vanilla she loved to wear, acid and lust.

Until this night, he never felt compelled to interrupt her quietude. He confined himself to the outer rims. He had been satisfied with the small tastes of her provided to him. Time was a curious mistress, however. No longer did the scraps of her satisfy him. He found himself craving more even against his better judgment. She was so similar to _her_ but so different – a beacon of promise both good and bad.

There were ways to justify his growing desire. He could come up with an infinite list of excuses if necessary. Yet, he found himself unable to stall his advance as his steps drove him toward her. Self-doubt and the fear of losing to another little boy in a man's body collided. Could he really wait to garner her attentions in between Templars? _No._ For once, he yearned to be part of the play rather than a spectator in the audience. Action begot action. And Zevran Arainai was a man of action.

Slackened posture betrayed her melancholy. An unusual sensation developed in the pit of his stomach as he reached forward to take her shoulders into his hands. Excitement, anxiousness, uncertainty, and hope all mixed into a stomach wrenching stew threatening to erupt at any moment. His usual swagger battled the awkward boy anxious to tell a girl: _I kind of like you. _Zevran was completely out of his element.

_Man of action, indeed._

Eliksha initially jerked at his touch. He surprised her. She had not heard him approach. A soft murmur of acknowledgement given, "Zev."

His eyes closed tight, a deep breath taken to calm the stomach tickling nerves. "You are stiff," he noted, spry fingers working into the deep tissue of her upper back.

"Must be all the riding." Her shoulders rolled into the pressure of his fingers, prodding him to continue.

An imp tugged at Zevran's mouth – smirk. Some openings were too good to resist and could not help but serve as a tonic for his nerves. "Oh, but if only you would allow me to take you on a truly spirited ride, my dear."

Many nights the pair had spent in a tent or bedroom since leaving Denerim. Bedding, however, was all that they shared. She needed the comfort of a body next to hers and he hoped for the promise of something more. A diversion he hoped to become. He made no claims other than that of a man seeking the pleasure the two could share with one another would she be but a willing participant. While he had tried to broaden the complexity of their relationship, she had been reluctant to consent and he was reluctant to push until now.

Elishka twisted, turning to face Zevran, her legs folding to the side. Usually astute, he had a great deal of difficulty reading her expressionless guise. "Is there something you wanted?" A minute amount of annoyance laced her tone. He had interrupted her alone time. He knew this.

_The vulnerable hour_.

"Such an open ended question with so many possible answers, my dear. I want a great many things." The touch of her lips against his own, the warmth of her skin beneath the caress of his hands, so many things he could imagine. "However, there is one question I would ask." The massage paused, fingers changing course to trace lightly against the line of her shoulder blades. His move selected carefully. He circled her and made his strike, "Do you plan to mourn for him forever?"

Brown eyes widened slightly – the elf had shocked her. Reflexive, Elishka pulled back, drawing herself inches away with the scoot of her butt against the ground. "Is that really any of your business?"

Too long had she wallowed in the flooded waters of affections spurned. She was stronger than that. She had slain an Archdemon. She had done so many things others deemed impossible. Her love for _that _man had weakened her and Zevran would help bolster her once again. "Yes," he retorted simply and without hesitation. Her answer would determine a path for both of them. They had become friends, had they not? It was his duty to slap her across the face and bring her back from this self-enforced widowhood. It was very much his business. Even if it was not, he wanted to know. He needed to know.

"Am I not allowed to mourn?" Her head tilted to the side, her expression colored with curiosity and vulnerability. Weary eyes look upon him. Was she seeking his permission or approval?

Reality intruded, "Not anymore. No." He found it utterly ridiculous that she continued to pine for the King-boy. He had heard her tears the morning they left Denerim. He did not stir and instead chose to lie there silent and listen to the sobs as they came. No longer did Alistair deserve her tears and sadness.

Sardonic laughter spat out of her mouth, "You think it's that simple? I made him King. Sodding King and he tossed me aside in thanks. How pitiful is that?" All that was missing was a whip and it would have been quite the display of self-flagellation. While Zevran had been known to enjoy more exotic pursuits now and again, that was not exactly the type of exotica he had in mind when he began the conversation.

"It is that simple." A nod. "He doesn't deserve your sorrow." _Or anyone's._ " He's a King living on borrowed glory. You made him who he is. Do not let him make you into what are you are becoming. If anyone is pitiful in this scenario, it is Alistair and not you." The words spoke of truth and sincerity. Alistair was not the hero, she was. Zevran sought to remind her of that fact.

A smile hinted, dark humor – a sliver – creeping into Elishka's response, "I'm sure he'd love to hear that."

"What Alistair loves or does not love is hardly a matter I wish to concern myself with." The gap between the pair narrowed as Zevran moved behind Elishka once again, tucking her in between his legs. Elishka's posture tightened at the brush of Zevran's legs against hers. She did not try to move away and instead leaned into his chest, allowing him to support her.

The time for passive game play had passed. A more aggressive approach was in order. Braids of black hair nudged to the side to expose the side of her neck. Hot breath warmed the surface before lips and teeth grazed light against the skin. "And, it is no longer a matter you will concern yourself with." It was an order and not a request. Confidence filled his tone. The knots in his stomach had begun to untwine. He ventured back into the land of the familiar, back to a game he played many times in the past. The stakes of this particular game were much higher than those in the past, but it did not change the fact that he knew his talent and how to read the tells.

Shoulders rose in response, her body tensing under Zevran's ministrations. "Zev, I.."

"Shhhhh," interrupted her comment. "I am quite serious when I say that I will be giving the orders." An ear fell prey to Zevran's mouth, bringing a deep sigh – pleasure – from Elishka. "And you will follow every one of them." His hand dragged down the side of Elishka's chest and landed atop her lap. The fabric of robe was tugged, drawn upward just enough to expose the upper portion of a single thigh. Fingers swept along her skin bringing forth a small shiver from the woman.

"And if I don't," she asked, her breathing growing heavier with each nip.

His mouth pulled back, letting the night's air connect with moistened skin. "You won't." Of this, he was sure. Another order given, "I want to see you naked by the fire's light." The tactile found replacement in the watchful. A leg drawn back, bending at the knee so that a booted foot pushed into the ground. It was the posture of a man waiting. His cards were on the table. Now what would she play?

"What about Cullen," she asked while turning to face him, her knees tucked beneath her bottom as she started to rise. It was not a no, but it was not a yes either.

An eyebrow inclined smug. "He is not invited." He knew that is not what she meant. He further clarified, "I sent him on an errand."

Elishka lifted herself off the ground and took a single step back. Hands moved to tug the top of her robe over one shoulder and then the next. Gravity did its part and pulled at the garment until it slid slowly into a puddle of cloth around her ankles. Firelight gleamed bright, a dusky aura of orange illuminated against the pale of her bared skin. He had seen her naked before, but the shudder that overtook her, the vulnerability flashing within the eyes that looked down at him, it was all almost too much.

Anticipation filled his lungs. A picture painted in his head; a memory burned deep in his brain. The slow crawl of a predatory cat brought him to his knees and in front of her. Fingers dug into the slope of her hips, drawing her stomach towards his mouth. His tongue glided smooth over the soft flesh of her belly. The taste of her elicited a moan, his lips vibrating against her skin. Kisses scaled the centerline of her torso – belly button to sternum – as he stood languid. Some moments deserved to be savored and prolonged as long as possible. Zevran intended to take his time.

The dip at the small of her back, the curve of her bottom, his hand caressed the soft lines of her backside before drifting in feathered touch along the slope of a hip and line of a thigh to delve between her legs. He teased with his touch – light but firm – just enough pressure applied to hint at pleasures not given but possible.

Hair was pulled, caught in the grasp an over eager hand, tugging his head back in a jerk. Teeth pinched at his chin before laying siege upon his mouth in a hungered kiss – tongue and tooth all came out to play in an attempt for release. Her voice hoarse and ripe with want, "Take me to bed already." There would be other times to take a more leisurely approach.

She did not wish to play. "You aren't very good at taking orders," he chided, already moving to gather Elishka into his arms.

* * *

As the junior member of the group, all the menial tasks had become Cullen's job. He had two new titles to go along with his name – Grey Warden and camp bitch.

_Go fetch some wood. _

_Water the horses. _

_Set up the tents._

His latest task was a new one.

_I need a bucket of bear dung._

It struck Cullen as an odd request when the elf made it of him. What in all of Thedas would Zevran need that much bear shit for? Was it the special ingredient in his hair products? Did it help bring out the sheen and shine in his blond hair? Did it hold firm his hairstyle so that nary a hair would be out of place? The idea of the assassin dandy smearing bear feces over his head as part of some beauty ritual tickled Cullen and provided him with a bit of imagined entertainment while he foraged through the forest near camp for the illusive steaming pile.

How he would be able to identify a pile of bear poop, he was not quite sure. Would there be something distinctive about it? His time in the chantry had not trained him in the ways of excrement identification. How the other Templars would have been jealous of the important deeds Cullen partook in as a Grey Warden. Perspective was an interesting thing, though. Better the search for bear poop than fires of his own funeral pyre.

He tromped through the forest for some time, failing to find a single dropping from any animal. Surely, Zevran could have provided more guidance in the matter. Pointers maybe? The assassin seemed to revel in shit. It spewed from his mouth often enough.

Defeated feet drove Cullen back to the campsite, however. He had no doubt he would get a verbal lashing for failing in this task. But, honestly, what had Zevran expected?

The familiar glow of fire shined splintered through the branches and leaves of the trees bordering the camp. Cullen climbed the fallen log he remembered as a landmark and stepped through a small clearing between the trees. His advanced stalled as he eyes beheld events transpiring by the fire.

_Naked_.

A single word reverberated in his mind. She stood there, unclothed and in kissing embrace of Zevran. His limbs became paralyzed by a myriad of emotions rushing inward – shock, excitement, anger. The only motion his body would allow was the slow blink of his eyelids as he stared at the lustful display.

So long he had longed to see her this way. It was his arms, however, he imagined around her. It was his mouth he thought would be pressed against her neck. It would be his hands between her…

In the shadow of a tree, blanketed in uncomfortable darkness, Cullen watched the pair. As Zevran carried Elishka towards a tent, Cullen could have sworn the elf turned and looked directly at him, a razor thin smile slicing sharp upon Zevran's mouth.

The idea came to him in an instant. He now knew what Zevran had planned to do with the bear dung – smear it in his face.


	10. Das Boots

Between the dreams and his overactive mind, sleep evaded Cullen. Every sound piercing the night's veil be it the soft hoot of an owl or the melodious yet mocking sound of laughter from the other tent made it impossible for his mind to settle. He continued to replay the image of Elishka before the fire. She would have never wanted him to witness such a display. It was not for her benefit, however, that the play was put on. How would he look at her in the morning? How would he look at Zevran?

_Zevran…_

A kernel of hatred was planted that evening. It had begun to grow, viney tendrils of spite slinking twisted at the thought of that smile. He wanted nothing more than to go up to the smug little elf and wipe that smile right off his face with a punch, two or three.

Elishka would never return his feelings. Cullen knew this. He was undeserving and she made no effort to disguise that her intentions toward him were nothing but that of friendship. He had hoped after she made him a Grey Warden, of course.

However, it became obvious to him that her interests fell elsewhere. Her sulking about camp and the way in which the King's name was quite purposefully never uttered. She still pined for the man that Cullen saw stand as her protector at the Circle. Or so he thought until the performance of the previous evening.

The assassin recognized in Cullen feelings he wished to keep concealed. Skilled in the arts of subterfuge, Cullen was not. The fact that the Antivan elected to indulge in an 'in your face' moment got under Cullen's skin. He knew this was, perhaps, the desired effect of such a vagrant and public display of sex-fection, but it did not stop him from feeling it all the same. Territory had been claimed and in a very unsubtle and overt manner.

Life had been much simpler at the Chantry. Women only made things more complicated and confusing especially to one as inexperienced with the opposite sex as Cullen. He could not spin an eloquent tale of innuendo or wear the confidence of the knowing man. The thought of him with a woman, especially if that woman was Elishka, left Cullen feeling awkward and inadequate.

He had made an easy target for Zevran – an easy mark.

_Bumbling fool, I am._

The pity party planning demons of the fade were in full swing, preparing for their new guest of honor, Cullen.

* * *

The slow and steady beat of Zevran's heart awoke Elishka with a soothing thump-thump. Their bodies lay entwined, he flat on his back and she side straddling him, head rested against his chest. Knee bent, she moved her leg up slightly, foot tracing the line of his calf. Contented, she let out a small sigh. For the first time in many mornings, she did not feel heaviness or dread clawing at her insides. Too long had she wallowed in her own self-enforced misery, a sister of the Chantry of Woe.

The Hero of Ferelden, the woman Elishka, both deserved happiness and she was determined to try to give it a shot. Doom tinted lenses were cast aside in favor of those of a rosy hue. Part of her realized she was feeling the afterglow of an incredible night of sex. Still, she took the time to relish in the moment and enjoy the break from the hum-drum-glum. A very wise Antivan once told her to take pleasure where you might find it. She intended to do just that.

Her head shifted, allowing her mouth an easy pathway Zevran's chest. A little nip here, a little kiss there, she sampled the man beneath her until he awoke.

Zevran stirred beneath her, hands rising to sink into the Elishka's sleep styled coif. A luxuriously relaxed look overtook his expression. "I can think of worst ways to wake up. Have I ever told you about the time I was hired to kill the rather brazen mistress of an Antivan nobleman?"

With the tilt of her head, her chin rested upon his chest. "I assume it has some dreadful ending involving you running naked atop a rooftop with your dagger in one hand and.." Eyebrows rose impish, her hand dipping beneath the blankets in search of.. "..your sword in the other."

A velvet smile accompanied a pleasure filled sigh. "Yes, but did I tell you what I did with my sword, my dear? Perhaps a demonstration is in order."

* * *

Embers smoldered, billowy smoke wafting up tepid as Zevran left the comforts of Elishka's tent and headed toward the fire ring. A quick bend at the waist and a speedy scoop of the hand, he picked up her robe from the night before. His own armor was somewhat haphazardly slapped on. A buckle here and a belt there misaligned and undone, it was the tell tale sign of what some might categorize as a walk of shame. What was one person's shame was Zevran's walk of pride. He had notched many a line upon the metaphorical bedpost of his life. Elishka was not so simple as a notch, however.

A relentless smile took hold of his mouth as if two little pixies had latched onto the corners and simply would not let go. _Happy_. He was sure he looked like one of those silly adolescents completely enthralled with their latest crush. However, he did not care.

The flap to the tent parted, a robe teasingly held just outside of Elishka's reach. Dangle dangle. "What a marvelous picture you would make riding into Redcliffe in all your natural glory," he noted.

"Don't make me put you to sleep," she snapped, her tone part playful and part serious. Fingers grasped desperate at air, the robe just out of reach.

There was a time once before when she made such a threat and Zevran did not believe her. He called her bluff, expecting her to walk away in a huff. Instead, she called forth her magic and quickly put him to sleep. One minute he was standing there, teaming with smugness and the next he was waking up flat on the ground, his arrogance pooled around his ankles. If she had wanted his pants off, she had merely to ask. That not had been the point of the exercise, however.

"Do you promise," he teased before conceding and handing Elishka her robe.

A hop in his step, a chuckle in his throat, he walked to the side of the tent to gather up his boots and slid them on his feet. As he put his right foot inside its boot, he felt something moist and sticky press into his sole. Discomfort of the unknowing pulled his foot out quickly and brought him to upturn the boot. A rather smooshed and twig decorated lump of dung fell out of the boot and plopped to the ground at his feet.

At first he simply looked down at the giant animal (one would hope) dropping.

_He did not…._

A chortle soon arose from deep within his belly. "Perhaps I deserved that."


	11. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

Elishka glided.

Zevran gloated.

Cullen glowered.

It was a quiet day's ride to Redcliffe Castle. Looks were certainly tossed back and forth. A giggle of a glance was snuck as Elishka watched a breeze take hold of Zevran's hair in blustery embrace. There was a devil may care manner in which Zevran watched Elishka's body bounce and jiggle teasingly upon her mount. The steel grey glare of Cullen tried to bore little holes into Zevran's skull or at least make him fall of his horse.

But no one spoke. Only a periodic humming broke the silence from time to time as Elishka floated along in a universe filled with unicorns, kittens, rainbows, and recently plucked Crows.

* * *

"I wonder if Bann Teagan has recovered from the great pickle juice debacle." Amusement danced bright within Elishka's eyes as she lead Zevran toward Redcliffe Castle's main hall entryway. A chuckle formed, "I suppose everyone has to learn not to try to out drink Oghren no matter what beverage it might be. Maker knows, I've had learn that lesson the hard way."

In an instant, the laughter ebbed. One look across the main hall and everything stood still. _Him. There. _ Her fingers gripped hard at Zevran's hand, squeezing tense.

_What was he doing here?_

Alistair stood in front of hearth in the main entry hall, a coterie of guards and attendants flanking his sides. Anora stood at his side, resplendent in a gown of blue velvet, great pains taken to pick a shade complimentary to the pallor of her skin and the coloring of her eyes. The royal couple was engaged in conversation with the Bann that quickly ended as the Warden Circus made its grand entrance. All heads turned to the entryway.

It was as if all the air left the room as Alistair's eyes met with Elishka's. He was the last person she expected to see here and the last person she wanted to see in general. Her little bubble of cheeriness went pop, a grimy residue of 'uh oh' left in its wake.

"The Hero of Ferelden," Teagan exclaimed, either oblivious to the giant elephant in the room or electing to side step it in a congenial manner. He advanced toward Elishka, both hands extended in welcome. "I had no idea you were coming. What a wonderful surprise." The room filled with surprises for all around – the main players each getting their own individualized slice of curveball pie.

Zevran's hand was released, freeing Elishka's hands to take in Teagan's. "I had hoped you wouldn't mind us stopping here for a short while." Composure took the reins; Grey Warden Elishka reported for duty. The emotional tornado brewing inside her was compartmentalized, to be dealt with later. She leaned into Teagan, a confidant's posture even if her tone was loud enough for all in the room to hear, "I'm hoping to find a Grey Warden or two in Redcliffe." And by Grey Warden she most definitely did not mean the blond one standing by the fireplace.

Her hands became her own once again, one sweeping in gesture to the roguish elf at her side and the silent figure of Cullen behind her. "You remember, Zevran, I assume? He's been so kind as to accompany me in my quest." An overly warm, if not excessively affectionate, expression was bestowed upon the elf. "Cullen recently joined us in Lothering. He was a Templar at the Circle during my time there." An arrow shot in Alistair's direction, a rapid-fire glance. Would he make the connection? "This is Bann Teagan." She continued the introduction, ushering Cullen to center stage and the presence of the Bann.

"Always a great pleasure to meet another Grey Warden," Teagan greeted. "And yes, I do remember Zevran. He is quite…unforgettable." His words teased with a touch of laughter.

"It is my pledge in life to be anything if not unforgettable," dripped dramatic, as Zevran brought his hand to his chest and bent at the waist with the flourish of an Orlesian courtier.

"My lord," was all Cullen mustered in response, his head dipping in acknowledgement of the noble before eagerly retaking position behind Elishka and Zevran.

It was only now that Elishka returned her eye's attention to the hearth. "Your Majesties." An overly formal bow offered to the pair. "I would have expected you to be in Denerim preparing for your wedding."

_Most definitely anywhere but here. _

Something sickly sweet dripped as she mouthed 'wedding'. Another shot aimed, her target easy to discern.

"Warden," Anora intoned neutral. The palpable tension in the air appeared to have no effect on the woman. Regal and poised, she continued, her hands cupped and rested along the front drape of her dress, "So nice to see you again. Yes, wedding preparations are indeed in full swing. _We_ are touring the country side meantime to allow the Fereldan citizens a look at their new King." The delicate body of an ivory hand uplifted and touched light the golden silk swathed portion of one of Alistiar's upper arms. "How fortuitous that _we_ should run into you here." _We._ Cool intent marked Anora's use of the word. It had been meant to sting.

Though Elishka did feel an uncomfortable pinch, she gave no outward signs of her discomfort. One had to learn how to withhold feelings and wear many different masks as a Circle mage. Become outwardly too emotional and you might find yourself killed or turned Tranquil. Eliskha had learned early to never let them see you sweat. "Of course." Brief, Elishka looked to the quiet Alistair only to find him impassive, his own gaze primarily focused upon Zevran. Her hand reached for Zevran's – she could touch a man too. To Teagan, a request. "We have been riding all day and are exhausted." _We._ She could use the word too. "You seem to have a rather full house and I would hate to further impose…" But, she was going to anyway.

"There will always be room for you at Redcliffe Castle, my lady," Teagan said warmly. "I'll have the servants show you to your rooms. I hope the ones you stayed in during your last visit would be sufficient?"

"More than sufficient." Something scandalous took hold of her mouth and the smile soon born in its aftermath.

_The things I could do to Zevran in that bed and I hope that Alistair hears every minute of it. _

* * *

_What is she doing here?_

Happiness sparked brief in Alistair's expression but soon gave way to a hardening. The flash of a glance took in Elishka's companion and the grasp of familiarity their hands were locked in. It was not a 'playmates skipping through the fields' type of embrace. Something about the simple way in which their fingers entwined together implied intimacy – an intimacy that Alistair was well familiar with and missed.

_Son of a whore_..

Hatred and jealousy collided with the acknowledgement that it was none of his business. Had he expected her to become a lay sister in the Chantry? No. But he most certainly did not expect to see her _here_ and with _him _like _that._

And that other one with her? Was she now collecting a harem of men to travel Ferelden with her? Alistair had indeed recognized the man as the lovesick and demon tortured Templar from the Tower during the 'cleansing'.

He may have been an idiot in the past. He certainly had been called one many times, but he was not blind or stupid. He well understood the show taking place in the middle of the room was all for him. A touch there, a smile here, her jarring gaze always drifted back to him full of blame and disgust. She gave off airs that nothing was wrong. Everything was just dandy. However, he had known her long enough to recognize the underlying meaning in each gesture and word.

A stone statue, he stood there by the hearth, unable to speak and only able to stare. He watched as the trio began their exit.

He watched as Zevran's hand unfurled from Elishka's only to find a new home at about the small of her back, tugging her toward him.

He watched as she leaned into Zevran's ear and said something inaudible.

He watched as the Antivan laughed at the secret between the pair.

He watched as they paused brief in the doorway and overheard the Crow say through upturned lips ripe with suggestive intent, "Your desire is my command."


	12. That's Going to Leave a Mark

"_So what now? Where do we go from here?" A sweetness mixed with an apprehensive uncertainty as Alistair looked down at Elishka. They had just made love for the first time and a wild fire of emotion raged within. Love, lust, anxiousness all stormed away under a façade of carefree boyishness._

_She looked up at him, her eyes filled with affection. The boy had captured her heart. Of this, he was now sure. Confirmation came in her words. "We say together, no matter what happens."_

_Relief and pride washed over him in a wave of warm success. "Right. I can handle that. I hope." He knew. "Before we go, have I told you that I love you? I did? Well it won't kill you to hear it again, will it?" He wanted to shout it from the rooftops only there were no rooftops to be had at camp. The tallest item in camp was Sten and he probably wouldn't look too kindly to Alistair climbing upon his shoulders to shout out proclamations of love. _

_A smile, soft and welcoming basked bright along the lines of Elishka's lips. "I love you, too."_

_The more skilled and experienced man might have responded with flowery speech or a knowing smirk. Alistair, instead, said with all the charm of a deflowered chantry boy, "See? Was that so hard?" If Elishka had been sporting pigtails, it may well have been the very moment that he tugged upon them._

* * *

Air, she needed air. Bann Teagan had been insistent about Elishka joining the royals and him for dinner. Her protests had gone unheard. Her plans for the evening had involved a warm tub of water, a slippery when wet Antivan and gratuitous amounts of alcohol and honey. It had not involved flatware, awkward conversation and tiny birds filled with mystery stuffing.

Formal gatherings were not her forte. There really were not a lot of parties at the Circle. Maker forbid that a mage should flitter about in festive frolic. Dancing mages? Abominations indeed! She simply lacked the training and stamina needed to tolerate such gallant gatherings with all its small talk, politesse and rules of etiquette.

_Which fork goes with what?_

To her, dinner with friends meant brash talk, sloppy table manners and belches reeking of a meal well done. Perhaps she had spent far too much time with Oghren. He had utterly ruined her for the Fereldan nobility, a badge of pride the dwarf would no doubt sport proudly.

And then there was Alistair and, of course, Anora. Through the soup course to meat course number three, she could feel the pressure and stab of their eyes upon her. One appeared to want to spit her upon the nearest pike and the other, she didn't know quite what the other wanted or was thinking. It pained to admit that bit of unknowing bothered her. And while the man at her side, Zevran, was as helpful as he could be with his promises of raunchy somethings whispered into her ear and strummed along the line of her thigh, she still felt a bit overwhelmed by the pageantry and haughtiness of it all.

She excused herself from the after dinner gathering before the grand spectacle of dessert could be presented.

_Female issues... _was all she offered, leaving the men at the table mute. In a way, it was true. She was _female_ and she was having _issues._ Lies tinged in truth were often the easiest to believe. Zevran had taught her well.

Her stride took her to a familiar path, leading to the courtyard preceding the castle's front gates. The last time she had walked these grounds, they were covered in darkspawn. The groundskeepers had done a wonderful job getting the bloodstains out. Darkspawn blood was terribly difficult to remove once it set in. She needed to ask them what they used.

Torches and moonlight illuminated the courtyard, creating a dusty feeling in the air. She paused at the bottom of the stairwell and allowed a deep draw to fill her lungs before venturing to a private corner next to the entry door to the Castle's lowest level. She took great care in lowering herself into a seated position on the grass-covered ground. One stain on the dress and she was quite sure Leliana would swoop in from Denerim with a song and a disapproving finger, chastising her for ruining such a pretty frock.

All her care for the fancy garment caused her to be unaware of the pouting puppy soon to nip at her heels. Men needed to stop sneaking up on her. Her face pinched sour as she looked up at Alistair. Did they really have to do this, whatever _it _might be? At one time, she lived and breathed by his presence. At this moment, she very much wanted to vomit instead preferably on his shoes so that he would have to leave to clean them.

"What do you want," she asked flatly, no effort made to hide her disdain and annoyance with the man as if she could swat him away like some errant gnat with the coolness of her tone.

"How long did it take you to jump into his bed?" Alistair's mood was equally as acidic. His eyes burned accusatory. It was going to be one of _those_ conversations. Jealousy and anger volleyed at her as if he was the spurned lover rather than she.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

Her head shook in disbelief. He had a lot of nerve to come at her this way. "You came all the way out here to ask me about things that are no longer your business?" Alistair had always been impulsive. She had been foolish if she thought after seeing him standing at the hearth earlier in the day that confrontation would not happen at some point. She had done her very best to all but double dog dare him with her actions.

Tension rippled in Alistair's posturing. Fists curled and hung tight at his sides. "I came out here because you are making a fool of yourself. Your behavior is inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" She guffawed at his choice in words. "Inappropriate?" Repeating it another time did not help it make any more sense. "Inappropriate is the King worrying about the behavior of one common and lowly peasant mage. What I do or do not do, hardly is a matter the _crown_ should concern itself with. You made that abundantly clear for all our friends to see after the Landsmeet."

The public manner of the great breakup still stung and she wasn't quite sure its bite would ever lessen. There were experiences that forever change a person, stay with them the entirety of their lives. The great Landsmeet debacle of the Dragon Age was one such pivotal moment in hers. The humiliation and overwhelming devastation she felt that day rushed in anew. "I'm not doing this with you now…ever. No." Determination propelled her motion as she pushed herself off the ground and circled around Alistair to leave. He may want to hash whatever this was out, but she had no desire to stand here and be lashed for the consequences of his inaction. She had abused herself enough in the recent past over what happened. She simply could not tolerate his on top of it all.

His hand shot out, ensnaring one of her arms in a grabby trap. "Stop." An order. "Elishka…I.." Alistair's head and shoulders dropped heavy. "I started this all wrong." It was a comment more to himself than to Elishka. "I just wanted to talk and I spoke before thinking. I'm sorry. You know me. My foot is quite at home in my mouth." Eyes pleaded _stay_ while lips spun into a boyish grin dripping with self-deprecating humor.

She tugged her arm, freeing it from Alistair's somewhat loosened grip. "I would say you ended this wrong." She stared at him harshly, shields up. "We are not friends. What could we have to talk about?"

His eyes slammed shut; her last statement jarring him in an obvious manner. The little boy had been sent to the corner without dessert. "You don't mean that. After all that we've been through."

It would have been far easier if they remained friends. The tension, the hatred, all would have been in the past and she would have her happy go lucky Alistair back to joke and laugh with. At times, she so desperately missed him and their friendship. He had a way of bringing the light out in a world of darkness with the simplest of smiles or the richness of his laughter. At least he used to. "I wish we were friends but friends don't humiliate each other the way you did me, Alistair." She turned her back to him as she felt her long lost frenemy, the water works, make its approach. She would not let him see her cry. "Friends don't lie to one another the way you lied to me."

_We will be together forever, I promise._

She felt him near her – the static charge of his presence bringing a barely restrained shiver to her spine. It had been so long since she felt him so close. The warmth of his breath invaded her personal space as he spoke but inches from her, "What was I supposed to do? You of all people should understand duty. I had a duty to my people. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. You were the one that made me King. I begged you not to."

The apology was too little, too late and too easily seeking to place some blame at her feet. "You had a duty to me, Alistair, or did you forget that?" Her head shook as fingers found their way to her mouth in a nervous nibble. "Do you want to know why Zevran? Why now?" Welling tears were stopped up with a make shift dam built of shaky resolve. Slowly, she turned. Yearning traced sad across her features as she looked to him, awaiting an answer.

"You really should stop that nasty habit." His hand took hers in his, pulling it away from the abuse of her teeth. "You'll chew your fingers of one day." An attempt at humor before he grew serious once again and responded to her question, 'Yes. Why _him?_" _Why not me _he seemed to ask as if it was she that made the choice and not him. The need was quite evident in the quick tilt of his head forward and the begging hang of his eyes.

"I expected you to make the right choice. I expected you to be a man for once, have some balls and grow up. Instead, you took the coward's path of tradition and broken promises. Zevran is a man that has enough confidence in himself to go after what he wants and take it. Claims it. He doesn't wait for another's permission." It was a cheap shot bringing up the elf. The emotional gashes riddling her demanded some kind of recompense, though. She was many things, but beyond being petty, she was not. Her actions of the last day had if nothing else proven that. The high road over there? She had long passed it in favor of the muddied and uneven path of the low.

His movement was fast and unexpected. Fires had been stoked; action has been provoked. Fury possessed hands pressed hard into the tender flesh of her upper arms, shoving her vicious against the stonewall, trapping her. "You wanted me to be a man? A man like Zevran? To grow up?"

Her words had sparked a fire in Alistair's eyes. Hatred? Plain old fashioned anger? The green eyed monster? She was unsure. She simply knew that whatever it was it hurt. _Oooooof. _His grasp further pinched into skin, eliciting a wince of pain from Elishka. "Yes, I did. I had been making all your decisions up until that point. I _made_ you King. I lead our rag tag group around Ferelden defeating the Blight. Everything fell on my shoulders. There was one decision you had to make. _One_. You had to make it yourself. I needed you to make it yourself. And we both know how that turned out." The words were spat out – a mélange of anger and regret. Flashbacks haunted her mind. Old wounds reopened jagged and unclean. "I would have done anything for you. I thought you felt the same way. You promised to never leave me no matter what, Alistair. Zevran made a similar oath. He hasn't broken his promise. You broke your …"

And he was upon her. The weight of his body smashed into hers, further pinning her against the stone at her back. Hungered and unyielding, his mouth claimed hers in a savage kiss. She had dared the man one too many times in single day.

His strength was more than she could fight. He smothered her with his presence. The heat of his mouth burned sweet and hostile. Futile and meager, her attempts to shove Alistair away lasted but seconds. A fog of desire and longing filled her head, mudding the waters. Muscle memory truly was a tricky beast. Her body responded to his, welcoming the onslaught. Primal needs outweighed logic.

"Elishka," repeated in between kisses, desperation to his tone. His clutch upon her arms released, freeing his hands to tug at her dress in an attempt to pool it around her waist. Her fingers worked quickly, unhinging the buckle of his belt and scraping hard at the tops of his pants, leaving a raking of nail marks upon the skin of his hips. Foreplay was for lovers and romantics. Raw need propelled them both in the brutal feasting upon one another.

Quick and ungentle, she was lifted. Legs wrapped tight around Alistair's waist, squeezing with want while arms circled tight around his back, drawing him against her. Skin to skin, body to body, she craved his contact. Her body bristled with need.

With each slam of her body against the wall, a loud moan would crawl from within her throat urging Alistair to continue. Tooth gnawed fingernails sunk deep through thin cloth, piercing the skin on Alistair's back, eliciting a pleasure rich groan from the man. Each scratch and tug only causing him to roughen his movement. It was a reckoning of sorts.

As quickly as the assault began, it ended with a violent tremble of release, Alistair's body against Elishka's. A fine sheen of perspiration clung to their skin. Their bodies went slack, utterly spent.

Elishka leaned there, into the man in front of her. It all felt entirely too unreal and nothing like anything they had done in the past. They had _made love_ up until this point. This was an entirely different creature all together. A challenge had been placed on the field. Manhood needed to be proven.

With each draught of air drawn in deep breath, the misty miasma clouding Elishka's thoughts began to burn away.

_What have I done?_

A whisper of a comment, his mouth nuzzled into the crook of her neck, "I've been the fool." Her heart swelled with longing. So long, she wished to hear him say those words to her. He had been a fool. He should have never done what he did. She was right all along. "I want you to come to Denerim."

"To what purpose," she asked, fingers raking light through his carefully (though he would never admit) styled hair. She could suspect what might come next. She needed to hear it from his lips. Assumptions were no longer good enough.

"To help your King." His lips lingered along her forehead, tasting the sweat upon her brow. "To be with me…Alistair. I could make you Chancellor." The jab had been precise and hit its mark. Very little had changed. And as if it was at all possible, her heart broke all over again. If he had only said these words to her after the Landsmeet, things could have been different. So much had changed since that day. She changed out of necessity and did not want to turn back.

Tears began the slow snaking down the line of her cheeks. "No. I won't be the castle's dirty secret even if it does come with a proper title." It was not enough. "This was a mistake." Her old friends shame and regret came out to play to dance along her features and sunken shoulders. "And you have a Queen to get back to."

Alistair said, mouth still pressed against her skin, "I had forgotten about her."

Her hands pushed into his chest, wedging some empty space between the pair.

_Must..have..space. _

"I have not." While Elishka had arranged the marriage for political reasons and had fully accepted that she could not marry Alistair, she had never expected him to pick fidelity to a heartless and conniving bitch over love for her. Of this, she could not forget.

"Elishka…please." Quite the image he cut, the begging King, despondent at the actions of a simple circle mage.

Part of her wanted to gloat. _Hahah, who's the beggar now?_ But, it lost out to a different part of her -- the fractured slivers of her soul she had only just begun to put back together. She would not gloat, but she most certainly, would not stay either.

"You've made your bed, Alistair. Now lie in it." Harsh words used in an uneasy and uncomfortable moment. She had to say something that would make him leave her alone. Something that would make him not follow and bring the world crashing down upon their heads anew. A courage filled breath was drawn in and expelled fast. "I know I plan to lie in mine with Zevran." Maybe she would gloat just a little.

No time was given for response. If he talked and she listened, what strength she still had left would waft away in the night's air with the next cool breeze. For all her fronting, she was not nearly as strong as she liked to pretend to be. This man knew exactly where to find the chinks in her puffed up armor.

She walked away, urgency in her step, leaving Alistair to stand in shadow of the Castle with empty promises his only company. Futile attempts were made to put herself back together. Palms pressed down tussled hair only succeeding mussing it up further. Hands swept furious along the shredded draping of the bottom of her dress, failing to make it the frock it once was.

Every bit of training she might have gleaned from Zevran and his stealthy ways was employed. If she heard even the slightest of footsteps, she would duck into a darkened corner and hide like a mouse with stolen cheese. She couldn't recall ever taking a walk of shame in her life. She was quite eager to not recall this one as soon as possible.

A duck here, a parry there, the sooner she was able to slip into the confines of her room, the sooner she would be rid of this moment – rid of the scent of him she could still smell cloying against her skin and clothing. The finish line was but steps away as she spied the door to her room. Instantly, she relaxed. She heard no one approach and moved to open the door to sanctuary. As her fingers twisted about the doorknob and pushed upon it, she heard a shock filled, "Elishka?"

The ruse was up. She had been spotted. A turn ripe with procrastination – how long can she take to turn around, maybe they will leave – brought her eye-to-eye with a slack-jawed Cullen.

_Of sodding course..._


	13. I Was Told There Would be Cake

"It is a simple game of chance. Would you like to shuffle or should I," Zevran asked of the guard sitting across the table from him. He found himself in need of something to occupy his time and what better a diversion than to separate guardsmen from the weekly pay.

A loud crash followed by an exploding bang caused all heads to turn to the doorway. Was the castle under attack? No, nothing so grandiose or epic. Alistair stood under the frame, nostrils flaring, fists pumping. Someone had angered the man. "Everyone but that whoreson, Zevran..leave," roared Alistair, eyes blazing and honed in on the spritely elf.

The gambling fun of the evening was brought to a quick and speedy end – over really before it had even begun. The clank of metal upon metal filled the air, armored men making a speedy get away. If a King barked, guards listened. They obviously didn't know Alistair the same way Zevran did. The ex-Templar's bark was far worse than his bite.

Only one thing had ever brought this level of ire out of Alistair in all the time that Zevran had known him – Elishka. In a way, it did not surprise him that Alistair was here. The man had run off after Elishka when she made silly excuses to get out of dinner. He had hoped to find her later in their room, strapped to the bed and completely helpless. But alas, when he ventured to the room, he found it and the bed empty. It had been obvious to everyone at the table, including Alistair's bride to be, exactly where the King was off too when he claimed he had a 'headache'.

Zevran had considered running off after her if for no other reason than to watch the show. But he knew Elishka would not appreciate his spying on her. He also did not know if his eyes could have unseen whatever might have transpired between the old flames should they have met in private and talked. Even the highly self-assured had their moments of self-doubt and he had been having plenty of those moments as of late much to his displeasure. If push came to shove, he honestly did not know who she would pick and how he would take the news. Some things were best not known. Ignorance, indeed, was bliss.

The manner in which the kingly teapot simmered could only mean he had indeed found Elishka.

Languid and unnerved, Zevran extended his legs, relaxing into his seat more comfortably. The line of his brow arched upward, interest piqued. Entertainment often came from an angered Alistair. "Son of a whore? Why yes, that is me! My dear Alistair, you do know how to compliment a man with such royal titling. I expect a tiny rose upon my crest, so that you know. The irony would be quite lovely, no?"

Wood splintered against stone as Alistair slammed the door shut and shoved the metal hinge of the lock secure. His chest huffed and puffed but did not blow down Zevran's ease of mood. "If I had known you wanted to be alone with me, I would have arranged it a bit sooner." Zevran's voice dropped to the whisper of spoiled brat, "You had but to ask, my fair King and I would have been more than happy to oblige your wants and needs."

Alistair remained mute during his advance to Zevran, his gait teeming with hostile intent.

Zevran's head titled to the side, eyes finally taking the time to rake up and down the overanxious Alistair. Speckles of dried blood littered his clothing. His shirt had seen better days, bits of it torn and ripped and the faintest outline of fresh scratch marks visible beneath the shredded folds of fabric. The red welt of a lover's overenthusiastic embrace marred his neck.

_Interesting._

All the signs pointed to an amorous rendezvous, but yet, there stood a rather riled up man, eyes alight with green flames of fury.

"You seem to have had a run in with a rather feisty alley cat, Alistair." His head jerked, motioning to the disrepair of Alistair's shirt. "I've run into that cat myself recently and I must say, the feel of its claws is most divine." Deft motion, Zevran left the wooden support of his chair and stood. His arms extended, shoulder height, their full length. "I do believe this is when you say something silly, I say something utterly clever and full of wit and you try to respond with a punch to the face or something else brutish and silly, no?"

Words snarled through grimace coated lips, "Your desire is my command." Smack. The curled up body of Alistair's fist rammed into a tattooed lined cheek, unbalancing Zevran and sending the smaller man to the ground with a thud.

_That was….unexpected._

A person could never truly be prepared for a punch even if they know it is coming. You can steady your balance; you can steel your courage in anticipation of the hit, but really, until the impact… The suddenness of Alistair's hurled fist caught the usually spry and alert Antivan off guard. Plans had been hatched in advance to side step at the exact moment of the punch, twirl around and pat the King-boy on the ass with a resounding slap. Games were to be played, laughter to be had, royalty to be completely mocked and irritated.

Instead, Zevran found himself on the butt end of the joke; his own ass pressed against the ale soaked ground. Laughter at himself, laughter at the situation, laughter at Alistair's brief foray into the land of the witty burst forth. His hand raised and massaged the heated slope of his cheek. "Well played." He would walk away from the evening with a bruising souvenir rather than the pocketful of gold he expected. He could only have hoped it would make him appear all the more roguish and handsome, as if such a thing was entirely possible.

A cat falling in the air only to land upon its feet, he leaped off the ground and easily regained his footing. "Do you feel better now? Or did you wish to pummel me some more? I warn you, if that is the case, I cannot be held responsible should I become aroused." To show his own anger, his own irritation at having fallen victim to such a brutish assault would only add another point in Alistair's win column. Zevran would not make it so easy for the ex-Templar.

Alistair's arm rose again, curled fingers readied to add more pulpy decoration to the smug lines of Zevran's handsome little face. However, the punch never came and instead, he lowered his hand and let out a long and frustrated sigh. "You do realize that I hate ever inch of you."

"Of course, I would hate me too...every inch of me." The elfin braggart's hand flitted about, motioning to his body. "There are so many wonderful things to hate about me. But yes, I understand your meaning. The boot is on the other foot now. That is how the saying goes, yes?"

"I cannot believe I am about to talk to you about this but I have no one else to talk to." Woe was Alistair. He slumped down into a chair, brooding. "I have been so stupid."

"About a great many things, Alistair. But as the person that benefited most directly from your latest bout of stupidity, I cannot say that I am sorry to hear it." His shoulders rose in shrug. "But yes, you could have handled things a bit more…delicately."

"This isn't how I imagined things would go," Alistair started, the words coming fast. "I never wanted to become King. I never wanted to marry Anora. I didn't want any of this. I only wanted her."

Zevran's lips pinched pensive. How does one tell a person that they are being whiny without further hurting their feelings? "Alistair, has anyone ever told you that you whine a lot?" The direct course of action was one Zevran had no fear of treading upon.

Blink, blink went Alistair's eyes. "Has anyone ever told you that you are a…" Zevran waited with baited breath for the inevitable come back of Kings. "…an ass." And it came, failing to disappoint.

"Of course." It was not the first or last time that Zevran would be labeled as such. "But that is just one of my many redeeming properties, my ass."

"Everything is a joke to you, isn't it?" Alistair continued to wallow in little pool of depression. Hands rubbed against the top of his head, disheveling not a strand of hair.

_What product does he use?_

"No, not everything, my dear Alistair. Not everything." Hair care was no laughing matter after all. Zevran's manner turned austere, humor and mocking tucked away for a moment. Even Zevran wouldn't kick a sad puppy, at least not for long. "You cannot give her what she needs. You know this. She deserves better."

"And I suppose that means you are better?" An under the breath comment, though still audible enough to hear followed, "It seemed I gave her just what she needed earlier this evening.." Alistair shook his head at his own comment. "It's just, I miss her."

Patience had worn thin. The last stream of comments from Alistair coming perilously close to trudging into territory Zevran did not wish to wade in. "That is your misfortune." Zevran flipped the bolt out of the lock, opening the door to the room once again. A bevy of guards just outside the door tried desperately to look inconspicuous as they came into view. Zevran flitted his hand, trying to shoo them away. While he didn't mind them listening in so much, it would not bode well for the guards should the tempestuous King spy them lingering in the hallway. "We are done here, no?" Zevran had no desire to continue the conversation. He was done. The two had never been bosom buddies and he could not imagine a world in which they would be as such. He most certainly would not hold Alistair's hand as he cried for lost love squandered or listen while he recounted amorous encounters.

"I suppose we are."

A last comment offered before Zevran prepared to make his exit, "You may want to clean yourself up before you see your bride again. I can smell Elishka on you from here."

* * *

The food served at dinner was like no food Cullen had ever eaten before. Each bite was better than the next. Orlesian cooking he was told. He simply knew he had to eat as much as he could shove into his overeager mouth. It didn't matter to him that he probably had gravy dangling from his chin or a piece of crumbled bread taking roost in the curls of his hair. His hunger had been ravenous since his Joining, a side effect he was told.

He paid little attention to Elishka as she left the table pleading 'female issues'.

_No, not going to think about that_.

It was only when the King made his excuses that Cullen began to notice the herd thin. Coincidental timing? Given what he had heard or surmised, probably not. He had enough issues dealing with the overly smug and cockiest crow on the block, Zevran, to have to worry about the intentions of the King as well. Any tensions that were born from sudden departures were ignored with another slice of pie, a chunk of cake, and a twinkle in his eye at the notice of the veil of discomfort that took slow hold of Zevran.

* * *

"I wonder if there is more cake," Cullen had said to himself aloud, already taking steps to leave his room and spirit himself away to the kitchen's larder. The rumble in his stomach was not going to allow him sleep.

_Feed me, Cullen. Feed me._

As he moved into the hallway, he took in the sight of a rather unkempt and battered looking Elishka. Bruises had begun a faint bloom of blue against her bared upper arms. Her hair had a 'look what the cat dragged in' look about it. Her clothing appeared as if it entered a battle with some garden sheers and lost.

"Elishka," he managed, no effort made to hide his complete and utter surprise at the look of her. _Female issues._ What kind of female issues caused a person to look like they had been abused so?

A mouse caught in a trap – she stopped shy of entering her room to turn and look at Cullen. It was obvious she had not intended anyone to see her and there he was, staring at her with those unbelieving eyes and opened mouth. "Um hi." She hooked a thumb to the opened entry way into her room. "I was just..uh..going inside."

The little curiosity imp on a shoulder began to whisper into his ear: _Investigate._

The little angel on his other shoulder began to whisper: _Let it be._

The bite of the imp was far stronger than the gentle stroke of the angel. "Are you ok?" Because she most certainly did not look it.

She lingered in the door frame for some time, staring at him without an in descript expression. Had she heard his question? Was she waiting for him to talk again? Uncertainty teamed in Cullen's forward advance as he neared her. "No," she finally responded before quickly moving into the room and slamming the door in Cullen's face. He heard the faint click of a lock from behind the door a moment later.

Stunned, he stood there for a pause. Had she just shut a door in his face? Did she lock the door? Yes, she had. He truly did not understand women at all and at this rate, he never would.

His stomach reared its angered and grumbling head, filling his mid section with a cramp of pain.

_Oh yes, cake_._ Cake I can deal with._


	14. Tales of Whine and Women

_Are you ok he asked? By the maker's ass…I should just run off to the Chantry_.

Elishka slammed the door and made quick work of the lock. If she could very well hang a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, she probably would have as well. Patience and nerves had drunk in their fill. All she wanted to do was sink into a bath and drown.

Thankfully, the bath she had requested earlier in the evening arrived while she was otherwise occupied. Fingers dipped tentative into the water, testing the temperature. Warm, but not hot. Tolerable. A cold bath would have done just as well, though. Perhaps she could shock Alistair and the memory of his touch out of her system.

Stupid laces and idiotic felt covered buckles hindered Elishka's quick escape from the remnants of the dress she still wore. She simply could not get the dress off fast enough. The glint of steel caught her eye. One of Zevran's many daggers sat atop the vanity at the other end of the room. That's one way to get out of a dress. A cut here, a cut there and the dress was discarded, fresh fuel for the fire.

Toes first, then legs, bottom and finally torso, she sank into the water, letting it surround her in liquid lukewarm blanketing. A good cleansing, that is what she needed. The fragrance of him overfilled her nose. If only she had a clothespin handy…

The enclosed embrace of the water finally allowed the steady stream of adrenaline pumping through her system to stall and putter out. And with its cessation, she began to become more keenly aware the effects her moonlight interlude had on her body. The dull pain of developing bruises throbbed upon her upper arms and inner thighs. She could feel the sting of scraped flesh along the lower portion of her back and bum. At some point, her lip was bitten as well, a small welt of a blister already starting to develop along the inner lining of her mouth.

_What was I thinking?_

She sank into the water, letting it completely cover her. Drowning. Yes, it was a good solution. Or maybe she could find magic to grow gills and live under water the rest of her life like some carefree fish. She could swim about and sup on plants. She could travel the seas and have new adventures. She could change her name to Efishka.

The gills never came, though. Human lungs screamed out for air, forcing her to leave her underwater sanctuary. Standing next to the tub, staring down at her, was... "Zevran," she shrieked, a jolt of surprise rocking her at the sight of him. He had snuck in, played tricky games with the lock, all while she tried to take on an aquatic persona. "Don't sneak up on a person like that. You'll give my heart a stop."

"Yes, I do believe you've had enough excitement for one night, no?" He knew. She could see it written all over his face – that knowing way in which he examined her body, eyes tracing her visible bruises. A new bout of shame poured into her. "We both wear his marks tonight." Agile fingers gesture to Zevran's own blossoming facial discoloration. "I will give him this. He is quite..passionate."

Meek and a teeming with embarrassment, Eliskha mumbled a quick, "Yes," before dipping her head beneath the water once again.

_Why hadn't I had Morrigan show me how to shape-shift? Ugh._

When she came up for air once again, Zevran no longer stood next to the tub. Had he left? Her neck craned, a searching gaze taking in the landscape of the room until it settled upon her Antivan. He stood adjacent to the vanity, already in a partial state of disrobing. Firelight reflected gold off the tanned and sinewy musculature of his stomach and chest.

_Fish. Fish._

She couldn't look at Zevran, feel the weight of his gaze upon her, the weight of his knowing. It was bad enough that every time she closed her eyes she saw Alistair's face. A huge breath was drawn in, filling her lungs to capacity. Woosh. Under the water she went once again.

Hands upon her shoulders pulled her up and forward. Zevran fully intended to claim his own spot of tubspace. She gave no protest. If he was behind her, she wouldn't have to look at him. And there was that whole taut tummy thing to consider as well.

He slid effortlessly behind her, allowing her to rest the back of her head against his chest and shoulders. A small bit of the tension she had been feeling unwound as she relaxed against him.

And she began talking. She told him about Alistair's offer. She told him how she said no. She told him how for a few moments she lost herself completely, overwhelmed with a torrent of emotions and needs that scared her. She told him her last words to Alistair. And then she grew silent, a huge lump in her throat swallowed down, anticipation in her breath as she awaited his response and judgment.

* * *

Zevran was a good listener. He had listened in the past when the Templar first broke a mage's heart. He wiped away the tears. He poured the drinks. He held her hair when it needed holding.

And on a night like many others in the past, he listened as she told him of an offer least flattering -- mistress. He listened as Elishka recounted her bestial liaison with Alistair. He listened to the way her breath heavied at the memory of it all. He listened as she attempted to choke back tears and put up the front of the brave little Warden that could – the little warrior mage living in a house of easily shattered glass. He listened as he heard the tiny creak of his heart's door opening just a little further.

Feather soft, his fingers brushed against the jagged outline of a burgeoning arm bruise. His face nuzzled into the top of her head, breathing in the scent of freshly washed hair. "You had mentioned something about honey earlier, no?" The waters had become far too deep and dark. A bit of levity was in order. Zevran was nothing, if not, the master of jest. He even had the tight pants to prove it.

* * *

Throbbing pain radiated from Alistair's right fist. He sat in the kitchen, the cook and old nursemaid he had known many years back examining his hand. "Alistair, I believe it is broken," she said with a tsk tsk tone. "You are not a little boy building moats and castles out of mud and pebbles anymore. You should be more careful."

An herbal salve was slapped liberally atop Alistair's hurt fist. His stomach lurched as the rotten smell of eggs and overly dirty socks penetrated his nostrils. "What is that," he hissed, his head turning aside to try to avoid smelling in more of the rank cream.

"Quit being such a big baby," the old woman chided, even going so far as to smack the King on his shoulder disapprovingly. And as an afterthought, she added, "My liege." Time withered lips broke into a gap toothed smile.

Gag. "It's just so awful." Tears began to well as the fumes reached his eyes. "You sure it will work?"

Another smack, this time upside the back of his head. Thwap! "Listen, you may be King. But I will not hesitate to take you over my knee and spank you like I did when you were a boy if you do not shut up. I know that thinking is hard for you but do try to next time before you..fall off your horse, was it?" The woman could see right through him. Always could. Whatever tale Alistair had spun to explain his injury, it was quite obvious she was not buying it.

"Gretta, you minx," Alistair teased, his eyebrows even giving a little wiggle. The woman always had been good for his spirits. There was something about her curmudgeonly manner that brought out the trickster in him. Perhaps it was the desire to see just how far he could push the envelope and how many shades of red and purple he could make her face become.

Muslin cloth scraps were placed atop the folksie healing remedy, offering a small respite from the stench. Cut string wrapped around the bandages, holding the covering in place. She poked down on her piece of work, jabbing at the sensitive hand. "There, you are done. Now I'm going back to sleep. If you hurt yourself again, well…leave me out of it." She gave him a stern look, wrinkled eyes squinting raisin like.

"You are just plain mean, Gretta." But he got the point. Don't test her. "Good night. I won't wake you again..well, unless I want an omelet." He would test her just a little bit. His lack of self control required it. Duck and cover. He barely avoided the hurled body of a rotten apple aimed squarely at his head as the woman left the kitchen.

A lightness of mood, the first he had felt since Elishka first walked in the main hall, took a hold of Alistair.

_The look on Zevran's face.._

There had been many a time when Alistair had wanted to punch the assassin in his egotistical face. A broken nose would improved Zevran's face greatly. But he always restrained himself because of Elishka.

And like that, his aura shifted from yellows of honey gold to an ashen gray. The mere thought of her name tugged his mood down to the floor.

"Wine, I need wine," Alistair declared to empty air. The world might look better through wine glazed port holes. He dislodged himself from a wooden stool and walked over to the larder door. Wine was not hard to find. Teagan had always had a weak spot for the stuff and made sure the castle was well stocked with the fermented juice of the grape vine. With his one good hand, Alistair grabbed a bottle and returned to his kitchen throne.

Thumb and forefinger pressed against the bottle's cork, but without the aid of another hand to stabilize the bottle, he found it impossible to get it open. "Of course, I can't even get drunk like a real man. I bet Zevran could open this with his teeth or his crotch." _Yes..crotch!_. He slid the bottle between his legs. Maybe that would work.

"I think his ass is a far more likely candidate." Words pierced Alistair's mopey solitude. Ruh roh. Someone overheard him. He looked over to the kitchen door, wine bottle held firm between his legs. It was not the most regal position to be caught in, most unfitting a King. Cullen stood there, an apologetic look plastered upon his face.

"I should not have said anything, my lord." His chin fell in respectful dip. Everyone always did that around Alistair now. It was something he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to.

"Cullen is it?" He very much knew that was the other man's name and didn't wait on confirmation. "Come help me with this. I very much wish to get drunk and you are going to help me. It's bad enough the castle will be filled with gossip tomorrow. I can't have them saying I am a drunk that drinks alone as well."

"Yes, my lord." Cullen walked to the kitchen table and took a seat adjacent to Alistair. His two good hands made quick work of the bottle and relieved it of its corky stop. A curious expression claimed Cullen's features. "What happened to you, my lord?" His hand was really only one of his injuries. Alistair still wore the same clothing from earlier in the evening.

Alistair wrapped fingers around the neck of the bottle and upended it. One swallow, two swallows, three, he gulped down a hearty pull of wine. His tongue swiped quick over his lips, cleaning off the ruddy residue. "For starters, it's just Alistair. You are a Grey Warden now. You can call me that. All the 'my lord' stuff makes me feel as if I'm about to be lectured." The stinky ointment had begun to work, the pain in his hand ebbing slightly. It had become more of a warm thumpa thumpa than a red hot poker of a stabbity stab. "I fell off my horse." That was his story and he was sticking to it.

Cullen's stomach took this moment to scream out in a loud rumble. Embarrassment flushed Cullen's cheeks, "I came in for some cake."

Alistair leaned back atop his stool and swept his bandaged hand about the room, "Then by all means, have yourself some cake. Don't let me stop you." As an aside, "You will eventually learn how to handle the hunger." Alistair readily remembered those days when there was not enough food in the world to satiate his appetite. His biggest worry in life was what was for dinner. Those days of innocence had long past. Another chug from the bottle did not bring them back either no matter how much Alistair might wish it so.

An awkward discomfort filled Cullen's movements as he appropriated a cake from the larder and brought it back to the table. "I had almost forgotten you were a Warden too, my…"

Rue twisted Alistair's grin, "Yes, well, I have to admit, I almost forget sometimes too." His life has become filled with paperwork and noble arguments.

_But my lord, I was promised that land._

He would have much preferred to be dealing with where to camp for the night rather than what castle to summer at.

"I remember you from the Circle," Alistair noted while reaching forward and taking a rather huge chunk of cake into his hand. Crumbs cascaded down along the table top as he bit down on the fluffy confection. "Have you known her long?" It was inevitable that the conversation would eventually drift into dark haired, brown eyed waters. Alistair steered directly towards those choppy seas.

And Cullen began to talk. He spoke of a child Templar and a child mage playing games of tag along the Circle corridors. He spoke of a teenage Templar and a teenage mage, sneaking in shadows and stealing sips of forbidden wine. He spoke of a young adult Templar watching over the sleeping body of a young adult mage at her Harrowing. He spoke of that Templar's relief when the mage awoke as if nothing had happened and she had merely dozed off, dreaming of flowers and puppies. He spoke of an adult ex-Templar and the adult mage running into one another in Lothering and how the mage saved the ex-Templar from himself and others. He spoke of his Joining and the understanding that came from it.

Through it all, Alistair listened, the missing pieces of a puzzle coming together in his mind. He had only known the Grey Warden. He had never really known the woman, the girl, the child – not in the way this other man knew her. He felt a sense of longing and loss, strong and foreboding.

The pair grew silent as Cullen ended his tale – the cake and wine long finished. Each man trapped in thoughtful repose.

Eventually, the quiet was breached, a tickle of comedy encroaching upon the lilt of Alistair's voice, "She does have a way of picking up sad little strays, doesn't she?"

Without missing a step, the straight man to his joke, Cullen quipped, "Yes, just look at Zevran." Both men simultaneously burst into laughter. A friendship had been born over left over cake, freely flowing wine, and at the expense of one Antivan assassin.


	15. Wild Horses

Zevran's hand traced along the evidence of Alistair's taint upon the pale skin of Elishka's arms, sending a jerky shudder through her body. If it was the pain or excitement at his touch, he did not know. His fingers brush continued, exploring the curve of a hip and the roughened scab of what he could only assume was a contact burn of some sort – friction had rubbed the skin tender – and bring forth a whimper of a moan.

As an assassin he had learned sentiment was for fools. He knew just how dangerous it was to have such a weakness exposed. It made a mark all the easier to dispatch. It left you vulnerable and open to attack, open to reckless jealousy – a fool's folly that often ended in tragedy.

_Rinna…_

He had sworn to take his pleasures were he could and nothing more. Yet here he was, walking a familiar and treacherous path that could only end misery. Antivan Crows like him did not get happy endings. Or at least they did not unless some sort of massage was involved first.

Somewhere on the field of battle, coated in the blood of darkspawn, his world shifted from shades of black and white to a more muted and confusing grey. Things he was so certain of before had begun to jumble in a mass of conflicting messages in his mind. He had left himself exposed and allowed the small and battered woman lying in his arms to soften the stony barrier he had so carefully built about himself. A feeling he no longer thought he capable of feeling threatened to swallow him whole – fear.

_You are a fool, Zevran Arainai._

"Zev," she murmured, "I'm hungry." Her words snapped Zevran back from the discomfort of his introspective torture. His lips tugged on the willing victim of an exposed ear lobe while his hand resumed its investigation of her lower half. The coarse gave way to smooth, delicate flesh of her upper thigh then inner prey for demanding fingers.

"For pity, my little Warden, I had hoped we would work up an appetite." The violinist strummed the strings, the sweet melody of sigh his reward. Indeed, he would take his pleasures where he could.

* * *

Cullen sat at the large dining table, a laugh rich upon his lips. This man, this King, over their conversation of the last evening had become someone Cullen felt a great kinship with. They shared stories about their training as Templars. They compared notes about the troubles they got into at the Chantry as boys. They exchanged pillow fight techniques. They bonded.

He was a bit apprehensive the next morning as he neared the dining hall and heard Alistair's voice through the walls. It was relief he felt when Alistair bounded from his chair to come clap Cullen on the back in typical man friend fashion. Two taps, nothing more. He treated the new Grey Warden recruit with the respect of an old friend. It was hard not to feel happy that such an important person appeared to value your company.

So he sat there and laughed with the King over biscuits and ham….

…until they came in – Elishka and the man whore, Zevran. She walked with a careful gait almost as if each step was a journey in and of itself. Zevran stood behind her, a slender finger jabbing her in the back as if propelling her forward into the room.

_What does she see in him?_

She looked far better than when he last saw her – her clothing was all in one piece for starters. While the majority of her was swathed in the loose fabric of her blue velvet mage's robe, her hair had been swept back into a series of braids leaving the slender lines of her neck visible, hinting at what other marvels may lay beneath.

_What does she see in him?_

"Gentlemen," she greeted, a forced smile taking hold of her mouth.

Both Cullen and Alistair stood, waiting on Elishka to take her seat. Disapproval colored the gaze she bestowed to Cullen.

_What have I done now?_

Alistair garnered but only a glimmer of a glance.

_Well, at least she isn't as upset with me._

As she sat down, her face drew back in a tiny 'yelp'.

"Are you alright?" The question came from Alistair, concern lingering in his expression.

An utterly unconvincing look of uncaring swept along her features. She very much had the appearance of the lady that doth protest too much, an expression that struck Cullen as quite peculiar. She opened her mouth to answer but only a sigh came.

"I do believe she rode with a bit too much vigor yesterday," Zevran intoned derisively. "She will not make that mistake again, no?" Amber eyes look to Elishka, seeking agreement.

Teeth raked against Elishka's mouth before a nervous smile bloomed. A fresh glance took in Alistair. "Lesson learned."

A hidden subtext floated in the air just beyond Cullen's reach. He searched the faces of his tablemates, trying to discern exactly what was going on. What few simple skills he had in reading people failed him.

Alistair sat silent a moment, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes becoming more profound in tempered scowl. The biscuit in his hands met with a grizzly fate, crumbs exploding in a bready bomb. "Bloody hell," he grumbled at the realization of his biscuit-cide. His hands raised and wiped the residue of his baked goods crime against the cloth of this doublet. "Yes, well, I've found we all need a good ride now and again." Pride ripped at his mouth in an all too cocky smile. The bouncing ball of conversation had landed squarely on the other side of the court.

"Perhaps," Elishka said, a redness invading her cheeks brief. A harshness overtook the soft, a challenge in the eyes focused upon Alistair. "Though I do believe I've discovered I much prefer the nimble, smooth and steady maneuverability of a fine courser to that of a war horse. War horses can be so brutish and clumsy."

A snigger of a chuckle erupted from Zevran's mouth, causing a bit of the beverage he was drinking to spit out before he could successfully swallow it down. "My dear, I could not have said it better myself. I do believe I am rubbing off on you."

"Amongst other things," Alistair mumbled in a tone quiet enough that only Cullen could have heard. The latest verbal volley appeared to have been an ace. "If you will excuse me, I have somewhere else I'd rather be." No effort was made to disguise his discomfort and sudden disdain for current company. With his one good hand, he pushed away from the table and rose to stand.

The unsaid began to finally form into a more definite body of understanding for Cullen. Elishka's ragged appearance the night before, the black and blue coloring of Zevran's cheek, the King's broken hand – it had been a very busy night in Redcliffe Castle. He bit down on his lips, holding back the _'Oh' _ burgeoning upon them.

A last look and comment were gifted upon Cullen before Alistair takes his final leave, "I would like to speak to you later this afternoon about something. Come find me."

The weight of curious eyes landed firmly atop Cullen's head, both Elishka and Zevran launching expectant looks his way.

_Thanks Alistair_.


	16. Practice Makes Perfect

Alistair's words to Cullen stuck in her mind – an itch that she just could not quite scratch. Cullen claimed to be clueless as to Alistair's intentions. Either Cullen had gotten more skilled at lying or he was telling the truth. Chances were it was more the later than the former. Her face crinkled perturbed. It was going to eat at her until she found out what scheme Alistair might be up to next. And while he wasn't exactly the crafty 'mwhahahah' evil plan type, he could easily stumble his way into making her life more difficult than it had already become. It most certainly wouldn't be the first time.

A growl bubbled in her throat. "I'm going to go on a walk," she announced to Zevran and Cullen, rising slow from her seat. The meal had gone sour in her stomach with all the over thinking running rampant in her head. If it had been Alistair's intentions to unnerve her with his final comment, he had most certainly been successful. "Zev, would you go into town and pick up some poulstice supplies for me." It was an errand she would normally send Cullen on, but it would be much easier to go find Alistair without Zevran around shooting her disapproving looks. His disappointment would be the cherry atop an already sloppy and melting sundae.

Zevran sat for a moment, head tilted in consideration. Something she could not discern swirled within his hazel eyes. His mouth pinched together. "Of course, but I do expect to be paid for my services later." Whatever oddness had overtaken him disappeared – gone as quickly as it had come.

* * *

It wasn't hard to find Alistair. He stood in the courtyard, his shield strapped to one arm, Starfang grasped firm with his other hand. The muscles of his arm tensed, power transferred into the sword in a single thrust, connecting with its practice dummy of a target. Straw dangled from its well beaten head. Burlap skin had been shredded, huge chunks of fabric shorn off. The dummy had been heavily abused – both of them. Anger and frustration were easily seen to be the driving force between every jab and sweep.

Elishka had always liked to watch him train. His strength and combat prowess were never more evident than when he worked through a training routine. During battle, she never had the time to pause and watch him do this 'thing'. She was too busy trying to duck attacks, fling spells around, and until recently, evade a stolen grope from an elf hiding under the cover of stealth. When he trained, however, she had nothing but time to watch, observe and lust. He was quite the peacock showing off his colorful plumage.

During those early days before he admitted his feelings for her and her for him, she would watch the ripple of his muscles as they contracted and expanded with each slice of the sword or pummel of the shield. She'd imagine his strong, battle calloused hands exploring her. She'd play out scenarios in her mind much like those she had read in the squirreled away romance novels she kept hidden in her trunk at the Circle. She was so naive and young. Her cup was half full, a bright side around every corner. The bitter and poisonous reality of the taint and what it truly meant to them both had yet to set in. They were two heroes traveling a path to save the country from monsters. And along the way, they both had to grow up and learn to face the rapidly approaching darkness.

Wynne had tried to warn her. But she made the same mistake Wynne made in her youth. She dismissed her older and wiser adviser.

_No, not me. It will be different with me. Crazy old bitty should mind her own business._

She could almost hear Wynne saying to her: _The mistakes of the old are often repeated by the young_.

And now as she watched him, rather than lust and desire, she felt a profound emptiness and sadness for things lost. She had lost a friend and love all in one day. Until this moment, watching him exercise his demons in the practice arena, she had not realized that Alistair experienced the same loss. They had walked this path together even if decisions pulled them apart. She had been so wholly wrapped up in her pain; she failed to recognize the same in another.

"I thought I might try to heal your hand." It was an excuse. She had come outside quite on purpose to find him, to dig into this Cullen business. But now, understanding commanded she bestow just a little kindness as well. She offered a small smile tinged with a sprinkle of the apologetic. "I understand you fell off your horse." It was impossible not to overhear servant's gossip in the hallways. They hadn't had such juicy stuff to chew on in a while and were a bit overenthusiastic with sharing with one another.

_The King's is broken, ya hear? I hears he fell off his horse. But I also heard his horse was stabled all night and that he got into some yelling match in the Guard's barracks. You see that pretty elf's face? Bruised up it is._

Cooly, Alistair turned to face the small woman. Starfang was sunk into the ground. The shield, Duncan's shield, shirked off and tossed aside. His chest heaved, short of breath from his exertions. "Yes, well…" He uplifted his shirt, bringing the bottom to his brow to wipe away beads of sweat, fully exposing the rolling wonders of his stomach. She had often told him it was one of his best features. It was hard not to question his motives in exposing himself so. "…we don't all have such nimble steeds to ride, now do we?" His cup runneth over with ire.

A little ashamed, Elishka lowered her head and eyes. Maybe it had been a bit cruel of her to be so petty no matter how tingly it may have made her insides feel to see the man get so worked up. "I suppose not." His hand initially jerked away as she tried to take it in hers. Eventually, however, he relented when she reached a second time. "I assume it's been set?"

Neutral, he said, "Yes. My old nursemaid, now the cook did it last night." And though she kept her eyes downcast, focused upon the injured hand, she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her.

"I'm not as good as Wynne, but I should be able to give you the use of your hand back sooner rather than later." She had always been one to discount her skills, at least a little. If you played down what you had to bring to the table, people would be liable to not be disappointed later on down the line if you didn't over deliver.

She closed her eyes and concentrated, sending warm energy through her hand into his. "Vigoratus." Cerulean sparkles enveloped the embrace. And as she felt her hand begin to cool, the magic spent, she released her hold. "You should be able to move it some now."

Bandages of muslin and string rained upon the ground, littering the grass. Fingers flexed, full motion in the hand had returned. "Thank you." Neutrality gave way to smattering of appreciation. "I'm…I'm sorry about last night." An olive branch offered.

She had not expected that. The hem of her gown swooshed in the air as she turned and looked to the discarded shield upon the ground. It made a more appealing target for the eyes than the man behind her – safer. She walked toward it, bending to the ground so that she could trace the outline of the crest with her fingers. "I see you still use Duncan's shield." She had made enough baby steps for one day simply being kind to Alistair. Understanding was not quite the same as forgiving.

"It reminds me daily of the people lost during the Blight." Malaise tainted the words. "So many were lost during the Blight, some dead, some…" The comment hung in the air, unfinished.

Heart strings strummed an all too familiar melancholy melody. But she had not come out here for a session of fateful reminiscing. "What did you want to talk to Cullen about?" Her burning curiosity had brought her here. She allowed it to resume its hold and slap the morose out of her.

Slight and salty, Alistair chuckled. "Of course, I should have known you had an ulterior motive." He neared her, bending to take pick the shield off the ground and retrieve his sword from its impalement in the ground. "You always were overly nosy." It was an observation offered in an uncomplimentary manner. "It's King's business that I don't care to discuss with a commoner."

The world spun. _Commoner_. It was as if Alistair's hand had risen and marked her face in contemptuous slap. What had she been thinking? She had felt sorry for him. She had lost herself in the moment and let the soft caress of past memories discolor her judgment.

And as she turned, prepared to spurt out a comeback of her own, she saw he had left her standing alone with only memory of the cool indifference of his final statement as her company.

* * *

_Fury possessed hands pressed hard into the tender flesh of Elishka's upper arms, shoving her vicious against the stone wall, trapping her. Words snarled, spat, "You wanted me to be a man? A man like Zevran? To grow up?" _

_His grasp further pinched into skin, eliciting a wince of pain from Elishka. "Yes, I did. I had been making all your decisions up until that point. I _ _made_ _ you King. I lead our rag tag group around Ferelden defeating the Blight. Everything fell on my shoulders. There was this one decision you had to make. One. You had to make it yourself. I needed you to make it yourself. And we both know how that turned out. I would have done anything for you. I thought you felt the same way. You promised to never leave me no matter what, Alistair. Zevran made a similar oath. He hasn't broken his promise. You broke your …"_

_And he was upon her. He wouldn't listen to anymore. He wouldn't be compared to that elf any longer. She wanted a man. She wanted someone that claimed what was his? He would show her what it meant to be such a man. She had once told him that everyone was only out for themselves. It was time he took those words to heart._

* * *

Alistair's body bristled. She couldn't be nice to him just to be nice. She wanted something – ulterior motives behind her actions. The spark of hope he had clung to but moments before fizzled out and he spoke before he thought. _Commoner_. It was a regular 'I know you are but what am I' response, clumsy and cruel.

_You are a big stinky jerk, Alistair_.

He berated himself as he stormed up the stairs and back into the castle proper. Everything about his manner had become exaggerated – the overly hard push of the heavy wooden doors, the loud slap of his booted feet against the ground, the over expressive frown. Could he have chosen a worst word to call her after everything they had gone through? He thought she was anything but common. Everyone teased him about not being the thinking sort. After that last performance and the one the previous night, he had to begrudgingly admit, maybe they were right.

A chorus of voices from his past echoed in his head: _Idiot_.

He needed to apologize for so many things. His use of words, the brutality of his assault the previous evening, the Landsmeet – the list was endless. Even if she didn't want to hear his tales of regret, he needed to tell her. He had been a fool.

"Take these," he said quickly, handing his sword and shield to the first guard he saw, reversing his path in run.

_Please let her still be outside._

He rehearsed what he would say once he found her again. He loved her. He never stopped. Damn the rules. Damn the Landsmeet. Damn the Chantry. She would listen. She had to listen.

He pushed upon the doors he hoped would lead to his forgiveness, expectant excitement and anxiety coursing through his system. A search of the spot where he last left her showed her still standing there, alone.

_Thank the Maker._

However, as he proceeded to practically bound down the stairs, he felt a hand upon his arm. "Your majesty." Annoyance flashed across his features as he turned to find the head of his royal guard standing there, a somber and worried look upon his face. "It's the Queen. She is missing."


	17. She's What?

And in a moment, everything changed. There would be no running down the stairs. There would be no sweeping Elishka into his arms. There would be no apologies. There was only Anora – stupid Anora. "What do you mean the Queen is missing," Alistair boomed. "How do you lose a Queen?"

Visibly rattled, the Captain stammered, "We do not know, my liege. During a shift change of her majesty's guards, the previous shift's guards were discovered dead just outside her rooms. She was nowhere to be found. We have begun a search of the Castle but I fear…" Trepidation radiated from the man, a tremble overtaking his voice, "..she is gone."

The normal reaction would have been to start ranting and raving, barking out orders and laying out punishments for a job poorly done. However, Alistair felt none of these compulsions. Rather, an eerie calm filled him. He stood there, arms rising in criss-cross over his chest. It wasn't that he didn't care to find out what happened to Anora. He did not hate the woman. Rather, he found himself secretly happy at the prospect that she may be gone and for good. At this realization, though, guilt soon overrode the calm. It was a horrible to think.

"Go find Bann Teagan and meet me at the Queens quarters."

* * *

It was a fool's errand. Zevran knew this. She should have sent Cullen. It was not hard to guess her motives. She would seek _him_ out. Alistair's presence at the Castle, at first, had been a point of much amusement to Zevran. It would be a lie to say that he did not relish in toying with the man, flagrantly showing how the tables had turned. What had been fun, however, was beginning to become bothersome and it prickled at his skin.

_Why does this bother me so much?_

It was a question he did not honestly want to answer. It led him to uncomfortable places filled with haunting images of memories framed in regret. He would keep things simple – run the errand, return to the castle and then claim his payment.

Zevran trudged up the hill to the Grey Warden's Rest. He could not help but laugh just a little at the inconvenience of the location. Could there have possibly been a worst place to stick a drinking establishment?

The bartender at the tavern was no stranger to Zevran. They had become acquainted during one of the many trips to Redcliffe Zevran and the others had taken. The pair had not been overly friendly in the past; however, they had not been exactly unfriendly either. It was no surprise that Lloyd gave no overly enthusiastic greeting upon seeing the elf. Business was conducted quickly enough and he was once again on his way.

As he wandered back to the castle, making his way along the dirt covered pathways of the hills about Redcliffe Village with a pack full of supplies, his mind began to drift back to an all too unfamiliar and unwelcome topic.

_Why does it bother me so?_

It lingered, clinging to him like an all together unappetizing meal – heavy in the stomach and throat. Avoid as he might, he found he could no longer ignore the demand. It bothered him because he was jealous. It bothered him because he cared more than he knew he should. But most of all, it bothered him because he feared he might repeat the mistakes of the past.

_And people call Alistair the idiot…_

* * *

Alistair's departure had left Elishka angry at him, angry at herself. Things would have been so much easier if he had not been here when they arrived. The woman scorned inside quite enjoyed tormenting Alistair. But those games only provided temporary patches to an already crumbling dam. The flood was imminent. She should have known better.

The commotion at the main door to the castle drew Elishka back from her introspection. Alistair had returned and seemed rather upset. He was speaking to the Captain of his royal guard and the news did not appear to be good. She crinkled her brow – curious and thoughtful.

_What is going on?_ _Did the castle run out of cheese?_

Wry laughter accompanied the thought. Cheese supply was an important matter for state! She suspected, however, it was some more grave than a shortage of curds.

The same little imp that compelled her to seek out Alistair in the first place, soon began to prick away once again. She was indeed as Alistair had said, nosy. Before, however, she could get to the top of the stairs and investigate, Alistair and the Captain disappeared into the Castle.

A few guards still milled about on the landing. Elishka looked to one of them and asked, "What is going on?"

"The Queen is missing."

Her mouth opened, hanging slack jawed. It was definitely something more pressing than a shortage on dairy products. "Missing?" She had heard that right? "But when? How?"

The guard's shoulders rose in shrug. "We aren't sure, my lady. The King sent the Captain to fetch the Bann and they were going to inspect the Queens chambers."

She immediately knew where she would be heading next.

* * *

**AN:** _ I know this chapter is incredibly short compared to previous chapters. I wanted to get an update to this story up sooner rather than later. _


	18. His Majesty's Humble Servant

The search of the Queen's quarters provided little information. The haphazard state of the room at first seemed to bode ill for Anora. First glance implied a struggle. However, further investigation showed a portion of Anora's belongings were gone – some clothing, her jewelry and journals. Also missing was her maid, Erlina. Anora either left the castle voluntarily or someone made it appear such was the case. Either way, no clues as to where she had gone could be found much to Alistair's chagrin. More questions than answers resulted from the search. If she left, why would she leave? If she didn't leave, who would take her and why? It didn't make sense to Alistair.

"I don't want anyone to go in there unless I say so," Alistair barked as he left the rooms, his frustration worn upon his sleeve for all to see.

Both Elishka and Bann Teagan hovered in the hallway outside. Their quiet conversation came to an end with the appearance of Alistair.

"Alistair, I am so sorry this happened under my watch," Teagan began. "If there is anything that I can do, please let me know.

Disgruntled, more at the situation than with Teagan, Alistair shook his head. "Teagan, I know this is not your fault..whatever this is." He sighed. "Perhaps you could have someone ask all the servants if they saw or heard anything. Servants have a way of seeing and knowing things that the rest of us do not."

"I already have people asking questions." Teagan bowed his head courteous. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I shall go see if anything has been discovered." The man of the house was on duty. Snap of the fingers and guards began to follow after Teagan.

Alistair leaned against the wall, banging his head against the smooth and unyielding stone. Is this what it meant to be King? It was so much simpler when the only decision he had to make was which pair of socks to put on in the morning and the only orders he gave involved food. His gaze dragged over to Elishka. She stood there watching him with those ever perceptive eyes. It made his skin prickle and his stomach flutter. The last time they spoke he had been so cruel. "I…should apologize for my behavior earlier. You were just trying to be nice and I was being an ass."

She let out a little huff. "It's alright, your majesty. You were quite right to remind me of my place in things. It is better to know for certain than to make false assumptions."

Every time she called him 'your majesty', he felt the pinch of a sting. She had a way of twisting what would normally be a term of respect into something of a condemnation. He had been judged and found wanting or so he felt. The guilt of his inconsiderateness burdened him. His head dipped, chin sinking into his chest. "I was an ass. I should not have said such things. You know..you have to know I really do not think that. I…" His foot pushed the wall, edging him away from its support and closer to Elishka. The extension of his hands soon brought hers into his. "…have things I would like to say."

Elishka pulled back in quick jerk, claiming her hands as her own. "Your majesty, such gestures are inappropriate. I believe those were your words, yes? You would do well to remember station as you have been so kind as to remind me of mine."

And while her expression was the mask of calmness and indifference, it was not hard for Alistair to see the anger and scorn within her eyes. During the Blight, she had learned a great deal on how to be cunning, the consummate actress so easily able to fool her mark. There were some things, however, she never managed to master, not in front of those that knew her best. Alistair liked to think he was still a member of such a minority.

He just wanted to grab her and scream. He had not meant it that way. Why was she being so stubborn? He wanted to apologize. Could she not see that? Frustration lashed at his shoulders. "You drive me crazy. You realize that, right? I'm trying to apologize and all you are doing is making me feel like more of an idiot and jerk." Unable to hold the sound in any longer, he let a groan of irritation pass. "And please, stop with the your majesty stuff."

"Your majesty, should you require any assistance from the Grey Wardens in your search for Queen Anora, please be sure to let us know." Elishka bowed, the gesture overflowing with exaggerated politesse. "I should allow you to resume your search, your majesty."

_Like talking to a sodding brick wall..maker's arse!_

As she turned to leave Alistair, he reached and grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her firm in place. No, he was not letting her go just yet. If he had to pound it into her skull, he was going to. He was the little boy that just didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer. "I order you to call me Alistair and to stand here and listen to me." With all the flourish and talent of the worst actor, he stomped his foot down on the ground. He had always used humor as a means to diffuse a tense moment. It was his most used defensive maneuver.

Alistair watched as tepid waters began to boil, fury scorching Elishka's expression. "Or what, Alistair? You'll have me flogged like an insubordinate? You'll have me thrown into a cell? What exactly would you do to me?"

"Well, you probably could use a good spanking now that you mention it." A charm rich smile sprung into action.

Boyish wiles failed to sway their target. A steely stare looked back at Alistair. "Perhaps I should go find Zevran then, no?" Her shoulder jolted, tearing her away from his grip. Composure retook control of Elishka's expression, her previous bland and impassive mask adorned. "If you will excuse me, your majesty." She did not wait on his permission to depart, rapid steps propelling her down the hallway.

Low, Alistair let out a groan. Under his breath, he murmured, "I will never understand women….ever."

* * *

The whole way back to her room, Elishka seethed. That man knew just how to disarm her, get under her skin. For a moment, she had almost let herself slip back into the comfortable and familiar. Alistair probably had no idea just how close he had come to weakening her resolve. Ever since arriving at the castle, her moods had been in extreme swing. It was driving her batty.

She slammed the door to her room behind her. Her body crinkled, bending at the waist and curling inward. Fists formed and feet stomped on the ground. A loud scream sprung from her lips – every bit of her agitation present in the sound. "Nug licking son of a bitch…grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaargh." Time in dwarven company had done wonders for the vibrancy of her speech.

"My little warden, I take it you've just been on a little visit with Alistair?"

The sound of Zevran's voice startled Elishka, causing her step back, hit the door and then tumble to the ground on her bottom. "By the maker, Zevran. You need to seriously stop surprising me like that." She pushed herself off the ground and walked over to the bed. Zevran had made himself quite at home, pillows propped behind his head and legs in full sprawl. Sarcasm infused her words, "How could you tell?" With a hop, she launched herself atop the bed and sank into a comfortable position next to Zevran, her head finding support in his chest. "Queen Anora is missing."

Zevran's fingers stroked the top of her head, combing through her hair. It was something that had always relaxed Elishka. "Is that all his royal highness wished of you? To tell you that his Queen is missing?"

There was something biting about the way Zevran said 'Queen', bringing a wince from Elishka. "No, we argued earlier. He wanted to apologize. I didn't want to hear it." A regular three second recap of sorts, all she felt able to provide. Her cheek nuzzled into the softness of Zevran's doublet.

"What did you argue about?"

The inevitable question asked and she was unsure how to answer. One of the things she appreciated the most about Zevran was how easy she had found it to talk to him. He would always listen and while he might offer advice, he never appeared to judge. Her choice of words never needed to be guarded when she was around him. But now, she felt the urge to hold back – be it embarrassment or a desire not to hurt someone that meant a great deal to her. But would the truth hurt him? She was making assumptions for them both. "He was an ass and I wouldn't let him apologize for it. That about sums it up." She settled on the truth but not the details – a good compromise. "He did tell me one thing, though.." The hand she had tucked beneath her edged against the bed and pushed up, giving her space to turn and face Zevran. "He told me that I needed to be spanked."

He moved so quickly, Elishka had no time to react. Lifted, tugged, shoved, before she knew it, Zevran had shifted from his more relaxed position atop the bed to an upright one. He had laid her across his lap and was making quick work of her gown, lifting it to expose her bum. A laugh peeled from her lips as she wiggled a little, more for show than a true desire to get away.

"I am but his majesty's humble servant, my fair Warden."

* * *

Did these people seriously eat drama cakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner? Cullen couldn't help but ponder the sheer ridiculousness of it all as he wandered down an upstairs hallway in the castle. He had stepped smack into the middle of some kind of love triangle and a possible royal scandal. Zevran may enjoy such things. Cullen, however, did not. For a moment, he wished maybe he made a better death trap back in Lothering – at least he thought it in jest.

Alistair had spoken earlier in the day about wanting to speak to him. Elishka was nosy and pried as Cullen suspected she might. He knew nothing to tell her. He could have told her about his conversation with the King the night before, but as she didn't ask, he didn't tell. Revealing that kind of information to her would have caused Cullen a whole other level of pain he didn't want to voluntarily sic on himself.

It struck him strange that the halls were so abuzz with activity. Guards were running to and fro with great purpose. Servants were stalking about and speaking in low whispers to one another. It all appeared rather odd to the man. It very well could have been normal day to day activities in a castle. He had no real of knowing seeing as this was his first time in a castle. But still, it left him feeling a little weary that something foul may be afoot.

_Maybe Alistair finally killed Zevran._

The thought caused his chest to rumble with laughter. And while it was a wondrous thing to dream of, he knew the castle wouldn't be this frenzied if the King had killed an elf, even if that elf was from the land of ImSoAwesomeAndWill Steal Your WomenStan.

He turned the corner leading to the hallway where the King and Queen's quarters were located and found Alistair standing just outside his room.

"Your….I mean Alistair, you wanted to see me." Cullen's hand uplifted in a congenial greeting. It didn't register that Alistair had a rather unpleasant expression on his face until after he spoke. "Oh, um, if this is a bad time, I can come back later."

Alistair shook his head. "No no, let's go into my rooms. I would like to talk to you." Alistair's hand swept to gesture to the open doorway.

As both men entered the room, the first thing that struck Cullen was the vast difference between Alistair's and his rooms. Three of Cullen's rooms could have easily fit into one of Alistair's. The decorations and furnishings were eleven levels above the quality of Cullen's. That is not to say that Cullen's room was sparse and plain. It was, by far, the nicest accommodation Cullen had ever stayed in. Alistair's room was just that sumptuous. Cullen couldn't help but feel a tiny pang of jealousy.

_It's good to be the King_.

He sunk himself into the overly plush body of a chair in front of the blazing hearth, following Alistair's lead, and attempted to make himself as comfortable as possible while in the presence of royalty. He looked expectantly at Alistair. Should he start the conversation? Or should Cullen say something?

"Cullen, I had originally wanted to talk to you about something else all together, but with Anora going missing…" Alistair's shoulders rolled in shrug. "You seem a nice fellow." Alistair leaned forward, his elbows pressing into his knees. His hands drug slow through his hair, mussing it.

It took a moment to process what Alistair had just said. One, he wanted to talk to Cullen about something but not now. Two, the Queen was missing. And three, Alistair thought Cullen was good people. He blinked, running through the list in his mind one additional time before offering any kind of response. "The Queen is missing? Is that why the castle is in an uproar?"

Alistair nodded once. "Yes, missing since this morning. Her guards were killed and she and her maid are missing along with some of Anora's belongings. Bann Teagan is looking into things." Alistair rose from his chair, an over anxiousness radiating from him. "I really need a drink." He made his way over to a small table in one corner of the room and poured himself a rather large dram of something. Seconds after it was poured, Alistair inhaled it and went back for more. A second glass was filled this time around. Double fisting it? No, he began to walk back over to the chairs and offered one of the glasses to Cullen as Alistair sat once again.

Cullen had never been much of a drinker. However, he did not want to appear rude or ungrateful in the eyes of the King so he graciously took the offered glass and enjoyed a tiny sip of the beverage. He recognized it as brandy. "You are upset over the Queen's disappearance, yes?"

A single corner of Alistair's mouth lifted dry, disappearing a moment later, obscured by the glass of brandy. "Of course, but that is not why I wanted to talk to you. I have something a little delicate I want to talk to you about and it cannot leave this room. " And while his face grew quite serious, a touch of fear swelled in his eyes. "I feel like we bonded a little being ex-templars and all. I'm probably being highly inappropriate talking to you like this, but I'm sick and tired of doing what I'm supposed to. I'm the damn King and I can do what I want. The rules can go suck on Andraste's tit for all I care at the moment."

Cullen's fingers tightened their grip on the glass. Discomfort washed over him. Everything about this meeting felt awkward and weird and he was entirely unsure where it was going. He sunk back further into his chair as if it might enable him to disappear completely. "If that is what you wish, my lord, it shall not leave this room."

The ants in Alistair's pants pushed him out of his chair again, driving him towards the fireplace. A single arm rose and pressed against the mantle above the hearth, almost as if he couldn't bear to look at Cullen. "I want to ask you what you know about Zevran and Elishka."

_Ugh._


	19. Battle Royal

He had been brought down to this level. He could hardly believe himself. Here Alistair stood, head hung in shame, asking Elishka's childhood friend about her love life. He should be worrying about where Anora disappeared to. The woman could be dead in a ditch somewhere. However, instead, he stood in front of the hearth and sought out gossip.

"You want to know what? I…we don't talk about that, Alistair." The unease in Cullen's voice was easy to identify and only helped to further spur along Alistair's feelings of self-disgust.

Alistair could see disaster in the horizon but felt unable to take a different path and avoid the trouble all together. An overwhelming need to know compelled him. "Do you know how long?" It was a vague way of asking multiple questions at once. Did it happen right away? Did it take time?

Cullen said, his voice still riddled with a stammer, "I am not sure. I can only say that when she found me in Lothering, she was sharing a room with him. But, I should also say, that there was only one room to be had and a good portion of the time I stayed in it while I recuperated from my wounds. They had made camp outside the tavern in a field by the stables."

Alistair's stomach flipped. It was not the answer he wanted to hear. Did it surprise him to hear Zevran and Elishka slipped so easily into sharing quarters? No. He had always known in the back of his mind it was a possibility that she would end up in the arms of the Antivan. Zevran's amorous assault had been relentless during the time they traveled together as a party. And while it bugged Alistair and nipped at his patience, he had thought, at least at the time, the flirting was relatively harmless. "Do they ever talk about…me?"

Silence hung in the air for what seemed hours. Behind Alistair, he could hear the rapid tap of a foot against the ground and the roughness of fabric rubbing against fabric. He was making Cullen overly nervous. He knew it. But still, he could not stop himself. Cullen said, "No, your name was never mentioned."

Alistair closed his eyes, lids pressing firm against one another. What did he honestly expect? Had he expected her to sit around camp and sing songs of ode to him? Part him did want that, he had to admit it. He wanted her pining away for him. It helped keep the idea of their 'love' epic in his mind – a great tragedy written in the blood of duty. But another part of him also wanted her to be happy – the part that still burned to see her smile, hear her laugh, relish in the comfort of her company. That part wanted to remember her and their time together in only the best of lights.

Alistair sighed, the weight of it heavy upon his chest. "Is she happy?"

Without hesitation, Cullen offered, "I believe she is or was until we arrived here. She's been a bit moody since we arrived at the castle."

"Hmmph…," Alistair snorted.

_Happy until she saw me…._

He could not escape the thought. She must have started to move on with her life and here he swept in and mucked up the waters. He wanted so badly atone for his mistakes. But perhaps he was being selfish. He had not paused to think what would Elishka want, what would she have him do? He was so wrapped up in his own little world of hurt, he failed to recognize that perhaps his desires and hers did not mesh together anymore.

"Cullen, you can go." Alistair placed the glass atop the mantle and turned slowly to look at Cullen once again. "I don't think I need to remind you not to tell anyone…her…about this conversation."

An all too knowing laugh creased Cullen's mouth, "Alistair, I think we both know that she would kill us if she knew that we were talking about her behind her back."

Cullen's laugh was matched with a mate in Alistair's. Yes, he knew that quite well. "Of course. And let me apologize if I left you feeling uncomfortable. I may be King, but the socially awkward situation is still something I'm quite good at."

His hand upon the knob, readying to take his exit, Cullen paused, one last comment offered, "I do believe that is a talent that many templars share, my lord."

* * *

Screaming pierced his dreams – a far away sound founded in reality rather than his dreamscape. The noise pricked at his ears, jolting Zevran awake. The clank of metal upon metal seeped through the door. Something, something possibly bad, was taking place just outside the room. Cries of horror echoed – an all together familiar sound to the assassin. They were the sounds of death and murder.

He should have heard it sooner, but distraction had been a rather cruel mistress to him as of late, weakening his alertness. The distraction in question lay blissfully unaware, still asleep. He leaned into an ear and whispered, his voice serious, "You need to wake up. Danger outside the door." It was enough to rouse her.

Both Elishka and Zevran began the frantic task of dressing. Adrenaline and the unknowing of when the door may open hurried their movements. Curses were mumbled under his breath as he quickly slipped into his armor. He found himself immensely happy that he had this particular set made not too long ago. He had requested armor that was both easy to take off and put on just in case such an occasion should arise.

And as Zevran had finished slicking the first poison he could grab along the length of a dagger, the door burst open. Armored men – three to be exact – spilled into the room, their intent not difficult to discern. Swords coated in fresh blood were brandished in tightly held hands. The coat of arms emblazoned upon their armor was also one easily recognized by Zevran – the Howe family. The castle was under attack.

He moved quickly, slipping into the misty darkness of shadow, obfuscating himself from view. This only caused, however, the small force's focus to fall upon Elishka who was not completely dressed yet, the buttons of her robe still undone, revealing a bit more of her to the men that perhaps should have preferred.

_My little distraction indeed…._

It was far too easy to flank the men. While they may have been dressed as soldiers, they appeared to lack the years of training a well seasoned man at arms might possess. They had been sloppy in their entrance into the room and jumbled inside rather than paying mind to their positioning.

The first man fell within seconds, Zevran's daggers finding easy target in a vulnerable spot in the man's back between two sheets of armament. Surprise had been on his side. And as the first fell, the other two turned from Elishka and attempted to take down Zevran. Swords were swung sloppy, child's play. With the quick pivot of the foot, Zevran avoided their swing. It was a dance Zevran was all too familiar with and all too talented at. He spun about one man and effortlessly slid the dagger across his neck ear to ear. He lunged, avoiding another pummeling strike from the last man, and brought his leg out to sweep his opponent to the ground. As the man fell, he exploded, bits of flesh, blood and armor spraying across the room in a disgusting mess of yuck.

_Her little distraction…._

Zevran quipped, "I do pity the person that has to clean up after you, my dear." Elishka did not laugh, however. She was visibly shaken, a tremble in the hands clutching tight to her mage's staff.

"Did I see the crest correctly? Are those Howe's men?" She circled about the bed to get a better look at one of the bodies she hadn't just eviscerated.

Zevran nodded simply. "I believe so. And I believe the mystery of where did our fair Anora go may have just been solved, no?" As he said those words, he very well knew what next would come.

"Alistair!"

* * *

His sword in hand and shield on arm, Cullen bolted out of his room. Loud noises filled the castle and had awoken him from his lyrium induced slumber. Grogginess fogged his mind and coordination. He was awake, but not quite _awake._ He had managed to throw on a pair of pants, shirt and boots; armor, however, remained in his room. He did not have the where withal at the moment to put it on by himself.

He watched as Elishka ran out of her room with Zevran close behind. "Wait," Cullen yelled, attempting to get their attention. "What is going on?"

"The castle is under attack. The old Arl of Amaranthine's forces seem to be involved. No time to chat." An urgency touched Elishka's expression. She was very much in a hurry. "Come with us and don't get in the way." It was an order.

As the trio maneuvered the castle's hallways, Cullen realized their final destination – Alistair's rooms.

_Oh Maker…the King!_

If there were armed forces in the castle intent on violence, there could be only one target. They intended to kill Alistair and anyone that got in the way.

As they came upon the first cluster of enemy forces, fear spread through Cullen, mixing with a steady flow of adrenaline. It was the tonic to his imbalance.

He had trained many years for battle, but had never actually taken part in one. Watching over a Harrowing and the murder of the mages at the tower were one thing, this was another all together – these opponents could very well fight back against him unlike mages.

He felt the air rip as Elishka's staff shot upward. The familiar prickle of magic use made his hair stand on end. Men began to drift asleep, arms going lax, heads falling forward.

One moment Zevran was there and the next, he was gone. Cullen blinked. He had heard about men becoming one with the shadow before, but he had never witnessed it. Templars did not possess such skills.

Cullen ran forward and attacked the first sleeping man he came into contact with, thrusting his shield into his head and knocking the man down to the ground. Impact awoke his opponent, but it mattered little. Training and instinct took control, Cullen twisted, his sword taking aim at the man's head and separating it from its shoulders.

Before he could move onto another enemy, Zevran and Elishka made quick work of the remaining men – a combination of freezing spells and rapid dagger work dispatching the men into crumbled pieces upon the ground.

As they neared Alistair's room, they could hear shouting and the shrill of fighting. Someone was up there putting up a good fight. Elishka ran ahead of both Zevran and Cullen – perhaps a little bit bravery and a lot of stupid. Both Cullen and Zevran hurried their pace to try to catch up with the mage. A turn around the corner and it became apparent the men still fighting were the King's men. Alistair stood with them, only wearing a night shirt, pair of boots and his sword and shield. Alistair and his men were surrounded.

"What will they say about you, Alistair, when they hear you were rescued by a woman," Elishka yelled out, her arms in the air already weaving a spell. Her comment served two purposes: it let Alistair know help was here and it let the enemies know help was here.

The group split, half their attention focused on team Alistair and the other half on Elishka, Zevran, and Cullen. The combatants about Alistair soon found themselves frozen in place, unable to move. However, as soon as Elishka finished casting her spell, she became victim of a shield in the face. She crashed to the ground, consciousness wobbling. It was the last thing Elishka's attacker ever did. Daggers blurred, a flurry of wounds inflicted upon the man standing in front of the fallen mage.

_I need to remember to never piss off Zevran_.

Back to back, Zevran and Cullen stood, a blur of red left in their wake. Anyone that came near them and Elishka soon fell.

Everywhere men were falling – both Alistair's and Howe's.

And when the battle was done, and most men lay upon the stone floor, only a handful of people remained alive – Alistair, Elishka, Zevran and two of the King's guards.

Alistair bent to the ground and picked up Elishka, beating Zevran to the punch. A weak smile drew across his mouth, a murmur of a comment spoken, "Who's rescuing who now?"

A pained sigh birthed. Elishka's eyes opening very slight, focusing upon Alistair, "You are an ass."


	20. Runaways

Everything became surreal – it was if they were playing parts in a play they had already seen. The familiar, a sense of déjà-vu, the throbbing feeling radiating from her face, all made Elishka's head whirl. Old roles slipped into easily as if at the end of the Blight changed nothing. Armor finally on, Alistair barreled into foes, his shield battering and sword slicing through metal, chain and flesh, helping to cut a pathway for the group. Zevran skulked close behind, taking full advantage of any weaknesses that could be found in the enemy. And Elishka did her part, magic spinning chaotic and controlled. They fell back easily into their old roles – all the tension and drama forgotten, discarded for a time. And rather than fight the undead minions of a demon, they now fought the live minions of a dead demon.

Outside of Cullen's room, they found Teagan and five of his men. A profound sadness filled his expression as he explained the castle was lost – far too few men left to defend. The castle was completely ill prepared for the surprise of the attack, many men dying in their beds; little time afforded them to fight back.

They would have to leave the castle through the secret dungeon tunnels. It was the only way. The front was too heavily guarded by enemy troops. The same security measures that might have made the castle impenetrable also made it extremely difficult to escape.

What belongings and provisions that could be grabbed along the way filled the few packs they were able to carry. It was a rapid escape – frenetic and slicked in blood. Any that came in their path were dispatched quickly.

Luck proved to be on their side as their descent into the dungeons went unnoticed – little actual resistance found near the dungeon entrance. The tunnels were a family secret. It was no surprise that the attackers did not think to watch entry into the bowels of the castle.

No one spoke as they walked with cautious optimism through the dark and dank interiors of the underground tunnels. Silence, save the occasional cough or clearing of the throat, echoed off the moisture slicked walls.

The morning's sun had not yet risen as they exited the windmill and made their way into the village proper. They would need horses and other supplies as quickly as possible. Whoever had planned the attack was either unskilled at such affairs or extremely overconfident it would be a success. No effort had been made to watch the town for escapees. Murdock was more than helpful, providing what he could. The Chantry helped with the rest.

And as they rode out of town, the blush of a day's new dawn spreading rosy across the horizon, Alistair spoke, his voice filled with the confidence of leadership, "We head to Denerim."

* * *

There hadn't been much to talk about during the days ride. It was not all that surprising that people remained fairly quiet. Side roads and unmarked pathways were opted for over the main thoroughfares of Ferelden. By now, whoever was responsible for the attack knew that Alistair was not dead and would be out looking for him.

Not even King a year and already, someone was trying to kill him. Alistair obsessed all day; his mind drowning in questions of the who, what and why of the early morning attack. It didn't make sense to him. He had been, thus far, a popular monarch. The black glitter sparkle of his job in destroying the Blight had yet to be dimmed.

And as depressing and chaotic as the day had been, Alistair did have to admit one thing – he felt invigorated. He had missed battle. He had missed watching her fight. He even missed watching Zevran, though he would never admit that to the assassin. For all their differences, they still were able to anticipate each other's moves and react accordingly. They fought as a unit and not the fractured individuals they had become since the end of the Blight. It was the bright side in an otherwise glum day.

They had chosen to set up camp in a particularly isolated spot along the banks of Lake Calenhad. It was an easily defensible position with water on three sides. It was doubtful their attackers would come by water.

Only when tents began to be set up, did a wave of awkwardness wash over the camp. There were three tents for twelve people. It hadn't occurred to him until that moment that Alistair would have to watch Zevran and Elishka go into the same tent for the night. He knew that she would have a tent as much as he knew Teagan and he would have the others. Titles and rank, they had their privileges he was beginning to discover. Seeing with his own eyes the woman he knew he loved go off to sleep with a man he had what best could be categorized as a love/hate relationship was not something he had prepared himself for.

Alistair took small comfort in the fact that his days of watch were behind him. That seemed to be another perk to being King – he could sleep or at least attempt to sleep. He knew he wouldn't sleep. His mind would wander and dwell on the day's events and what was happening in the tent next to his.

* * *

It had been a rather tiring day for Teagan. He had watched an attempt on the King's life. He had watched his brother's home -- his home -- assaulted. He had found himself traveling with familiar yet unfamiliar friends.

He very much knew the history of his travel mates – the affair Alistair had with the mage, the affair the mage was now having with the assassin and the friendship that was starting to blossom between ex-Templar and ex-Templar. Though he may have appeared it at times, Teagan was by no means a blind man. He watched. He learned. And while others might act rashly and out of emotion, he would bide his time and take the path of the man of logic and reason. It was why he stood against Loghain at the Landsmeet. He could see the miasma of deceit swirling about Loghain and his daughter.

His best guess at what had transpired today? A coup attempt. Howe's son had gathered an army of his father's old men and some new to try to kill Alistair and place Anora upon the throne. Anora had always been overly ambitious. She had never been content to be simply the woman behind the man. During Cailan's rule, she leapt at the chance to seize power and rule. She was so very like her father -- a political tactician.

The pairing of Alistair and Anora, while perhaps necessary, always left Teagan feeling a bit uneasy. He had feared another Cailan situation. Alistair was too unseasoned, too emotional, too easy a target for Anora. He never understood why Alistair had not made the Warden his Queen. He knew the reasoning behind the decision; it was what his brother would have wanted. However, he didn't quite understand why Alistair would agree. Alistair was more like Cailan than most would have cared to admit. They were both impulsive – a trait they inherited from their father. The boy Kings of the Therrin line surrounded by the strong women that loved them. That is how they would be known.

Teagan quietly watched as tents were set up and a palpable tension of uneasiness wafted in the air. Three tents, twelve people. It was not hard to do the math. It all appeared pretty clear to Teagan who would be staying in which tents. But, he would be lying, if he did not admit it was fun to watch the King, Elishka and Zevran do their little dance. It made him feel both old and entertained at the same time. And a part of him wondered if this is what it felt like to watch his sister, Loghain and Maric once upon a time.


	21. Cold Shower

Traveling with him again, being so near to him without a quick avenue of escape left Elishka on edge. Sleep was probably advised but she knew there was no way that her mind would allow it. She needed a distraction. She needed a hot bath and a bottle of wine. The best she could do would be a cold dip in the lake. She'd also have to go thirsty as wine was not on the list of items that they managed to grab before leaving Redcliffe.

She wiggled out of the tent as quietly as possible, leaving Zevran with whispered promises that she would return later. Only two guards were awake, both on watch. She nodded once to them and tromped through a small cluster of trees separating the camp site from the shoreline of the lake.

In the hurry of packing, she had not managed to grab anything proper to sleep in and had to instead wear one of Zevran's shirts. As she removed it, a chill shook her body, the cool air prickling at her skin. Small clothes were shirked off quickly and tossed atop the discarded shirt.

She tiptoed into the water, cry muffled behind her hand. It was far colder than she had. She sunk deep, diving into the murky waters and submerged herself. An ice bath might be the tonic she needed.

She swam a little further away from the shore and flipped to float on her back, arms spreading out to her side. She had learned to swim in this very lake as a child during her time at the Circle. She wasn't cooped up with books and lessons all the time. Periodically, during those few hot days that Ferelden might experience during the summer, Templars and mages alike would go outside the tower and enjoy a nice swim. The water washed away all barriers. They were no longer Templars or mages . Tensions were checked at the shore.

Her neck craned back allowing her a perfect look at the stars shining bright in the evening sky. _Wish upon a star and your dreams will come true._ It was the stuff of fairy tales told to little children before the brutality of the world could sink in and corrupt their innocence with its taint of cynicism.

_Cullen…._

They had spoken relatively little since they found one another in Lothering. The whole 'voices in my head' story had left her uneasy. But the Joining seemed to have cured whatever was ailing Cullen.

_Perhaps the taint is good for something other than short life spans and barren wombs._

At some point, they needed to talk about all that happened – his Joining, the Circle murders, his life as a Warden.

_My little distraction…_

As she closed her eyes, ready to drift in a conscious sleep adrift on the lake, the sound of a twig breaking startled her. She sank into the water, only her head and arms visible as she swam in place. Her gaze dragged along the shoreline, a familiar form hovering at the spot she had dropped her clothing.

_Alistair…_

"How long have you been there," she spat, her irritation unhidden.

His shoulders rose and fell in shrug. "Not too long. Couldn't sleep. Came out here to take in the…" An all too predictable smile crept upon Alistair's mouth, "…scenery."

Her head shook. _Scenery indeed…_ She could only imagine the image she must have cut floating atop the water with all her naughty bits on display for the world to see. She swam just close enough to the shore to be able to stand while still using the water as a modesty shield. "Well, you've had your show. Maybe you should go back to camp." She waved a hand at him dismissively. It would have been incredibly difficult to not think about the man if he was standing there on the shore.

He shook his head. "No, I don't think I will do that. See, you went and did the stupid thing by making me King. Now I don't have to listen to you and can do whatever I want." Mischief colored his expression. All together too quick, he bent and picked up Elishka's clothes off the ground.

"Yes, well that was certainly a mistake, wasn't it?" She let out an exasperated sigh. "Put my clothes down and just go away. I was having a perfectly relaxing moment before you arrived."

He toyed, "Oh yes, I can see how floating around in a frigid lake late at night can be relaxing." His head tilted, eyes glossing over the garments in his hands. "No, I don't think I'll let you have these just yet. I want to talk to you and seeing as you aren't liable to listen to me otherwise, I may as well take advantage of the situation…in hand." His smile sprung puerile.

_For sodding sake…._

He was trying to be charming and clever and all it did was infuriate Elishka more and more. Every juvenile smile, every little pun, they only served to stoke the slow burning fire of her mood. "You are acting like a little spoiled brat."

"I may be, but you are going to listen to me all the same." Clothing was held up in tease.

She was done. It was enough. All he was succeeding in doing was picking at scabs that were not quite ready to be shed. Her eyes cinched shut tight for a moment as a deep draught of air was pulled deep into her lungs. Heavy and filled with resignation, she sighed and began to walk out of the water. He had seen her naked before. He had just seen her naked moments before. He was not going to hold her clothing ransom as some way to make her talk to him. King or not, he could go die in a fire and just leave her alone. "No, I don't think that I will."

She tried to ignore the way he watched her as she exited the water. She would let him have his little show if it meant getting away from him all the sooner and not having to listen to that voice, that wonderfully intoxicating voice.

_Ugh…No._

When she finally stood in front of Alistair, she reached her hand out to take her clothes from his hand. But rather than give it to her, he lifted his arm up in the air and held the garments hostage at heights unattainable. Her reach did not rival his.

"You ready to listen?" And to his credit, Alistair kept his focus intent on her face.

Full well knowing the display that would take place by jumping in the air, she did it anyway. On the first jump, she just barely missed grasping at a small piece of cloth. On her second jump, she didn't even come close. And on the third, she failed all together and instead chest bumped Alistair -- an act that resulted in the pair falling to the ground, she atop him.

His arms immediately encircled her, tugging her body against his. His hands felt warm against the lake chilled body of her skin. "Alistair...let me go."

Cloth dragged along her back, still clutched in the hand that had begun to explore the curve of her backside. "I know you still love me," he whispered.

Her hands pressed into the dirt, an attempt made to push her off Alistair. "So? Maybe I do. But love is for fairy tales and people who get happy endings. I'm a mage. Neither applies to me." Yes, she did still love him. And maybe a part of her always would love him. But it was not enough.

"Stop that." A softness filled his gaze. "You shouldn't discount yourself so. If anyone knows about that sort of behavior it's me. I'm the King of self-loathing." A grin sprung to life. "Oh wait, I'm also the King and I order you to stop that!"

His joking only met with a frown. At another time and another place, Elishka would have been completely charmed by his humor. But at this particular moment, all she felt was the bittersweet sting of wisdom. He had been right that day of the Landsmeet. This could not work. She needed to say it. He needed to hear it. "What happened at Redcliffe shouldn't have happened. I was quite lost in your…." She managed a weak smile, "…charms." Charms was a delicate way of putting it. It was at least more direct than referencing the mythical bucking horse.

His grip upon Elishka loosened, allowing her to move away from him. The feel of his night shirt against her skin as she drew herself away caused her teeth to tug at her lip. She could so easily lose herself in his arms. But then what?

"Do you love him," Alistair asked.

Clothing was put on quickly. She had never really taken the time to consider her feelings toward Zevran. She knew she cared for him deeply. But did she actually love him? "Good night, Alistair." It would be a question for another time and not one she would discuss with Alistair.

As she began back to camp, Alistair called out to her, "I still love you. You should know that."

Her back to him, she stopped brief in her departure. Her heart swelled; her breath hitched. "I'm sorry," rasped hoarse and she continued back to camp, leaving Alistair at the shore. She wasn't exactly sure what she was sorry for – sorry that he still loved her, sorry that she still loved him, sorry that it really didn't matter how they felt. There were so many things to be sorry for. Any one reason would have done.

She drifted through the camp, a quiet mouse seeking its hidey-hole. The guards received no nod – only silence. She slid into the tent and beneath the blankets of the bedrolls she shared with Zevran. He lay there quiet, but not asleep. His arm lazily draped across her as she pressed her back against him. Still chilled fingers sought out Zevran's hand, entwining their length about his fingers and tugging them to rest against her belly.

Zevran had stayed with her through the Blight and beyond. Others may have questioned his loyalty, but she never did. She saw something in him that day on the Imperial Highway that compelled her to save him and he had not let her down yet. He had been good to his oath, good to her. And for that, she was thankful. "Thank you, Zev. For everything."

His face nuzzled against her neck, his mouth nipping soft at her skin. "Shhhhhhh, do not ruin a perfectly wonderful moment by doing something so foolish as to talk about feelings." And at that moment, she knew just maybe she was beginning to fall in love with Zevran…just a little.


	22. Trinkets

It had become a habit, watching Elishka sleep. Leaning against an elbow, Zevran would lay there take in the curvature of her face, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and the way she would whisper unintelligible gibberish in her sleep. In sleep, she looked untroubled, peaceful. In sleep, she could not see the cracks forming in his armor.

_Thank you, Zev. For everything._

The words hit their mark.

_Do not ruin a perfectly wonderful moment by doing something so foolish as to talk about feelings._

Feelings he was not ready to openly discuss or admit. He had sworn to learn from past mistakes. Rinna would not happen again. But yet, he felt himself on the edge of a precipice fearful of what lay below. He knew Elishka was no Rinna. The women could not be more different. But still, the doubt lingered in his mind.

_Alistair_…

The stupid boy King was getting in the way. If betrayal was to come, it would be because of man-boy. It was not hard to see that she still had feelings for Alistair. The way they looked at one another, the way her skin seemed to stand on end whenever Alistair was around, Zevran was not a blind man. But yet still, ever the fool, he wanted to believe it was over. She was much too smart to return to the arms of such a man – a man that cast her aside because her pedigree did not meet with his Uncle's approval. She had to be.

Elishka wiggled against Zevran as she began to awake – the low hum of activity outside the tent penetrating the quietude of their canvas covered retreat. "Morning," she murmured.

Spindly fingers brushed against her forehead, pushing hair behind an ear. "I…I have something I want to give you."

A sly smile sprung to life, coloring Elishka's mouth with happiness. "Do we have time for that?" Her hand immediately dipped beneath the covers, searching out for the hidden treasures beneath.

Zevran could not help but chuckle. "Perhaps…" He drew his gaze to the flap of the tent. He could hear Alistair's voice outside. "But perhaps not… And I know I would rather enjoy _that_, it is not what I wished to give you."

He had dug it out earlier in the morning, one of two personal items that he always carried on his person. It was as nearest a confession he would get to admitting his feelings. It was as close as he was willing to come to the cliff's edge – a tentative step, one foot dangling while the other wobbled in weary balance.

An earring was pulled from a pocket of his satchel, suspended between two fingers in offering. "I've carried this little trinket with me since my first mission with Crows. A Rivaini merchant prince was my target. When I found him, he was wearing this and only this." A small sigh escaped his lips, Elishka's distracting hands, gliding feather soft along his thigh.

_This woman…I…._

He shook the thought off and continued, determined to tell his tale and give his gift. "I killed him, of course."

Teeth nipped at his chin, words murmured soft against flesh. "Of course you did, that is what you do , no?"

"Yes, it is except when faced with sex goddess Grey Wardens. But, you are distracting me."

A mock pout slid smooth upon Elishka's mouth as she withdrew her mischief intent fingers. "I shall be good and listen then."

Zevran's head tilted to the side, as much as he was willing to offer in chastise. "I thought…I thought it was beautiful and took it to mark the occasion – a trophy if you will." Amber eyes sought Elishka's. The lump in his throat swallowed down, hidden. "I want you to have it." Expectant, he watched her. Seconds felt like hours as he waited on her to take it, to say anything.

And accept it she did. She plucked the jeweled trinket from Zevran's grasp and took it into her own. "I….thank you. It's lovely." Until that moment, he had not even realized her ears were already pierced. The earring slid into its new home within her right lobe with little difficulty.

"It's meant a lot to me but so have – so has what you have done." His lips found hers in gentle kiss. "Thank you."

Her teeth nibbled at his mouth, drawing it back to hers. Fingers renewed their attack upon Zevran's lower half. Breathy, her mouth still against his, Elishka whispered, "Let's not ruin a perfectly wonderful moment with talk about feelings."

And Zevran jumped over the ledge, diving head first into the tumultuous seas below.

* * *

Decisions had been made to travel to the Circle. Supplies could be obtained, shelter provided, Wynne visited. It was a win win for all involved but one – Cullen.

The Circle Tower loomed ahead. Cullen had seen this building many a time in the past, but never had it appeared so large and terrifying. His home, his prison, it had been many things to him over the years. But what was it now? He did not know.

The closer and closer they came to the tower, the more and more uneasy Cullen became. His body already ached from riding all day. The weight of his armor bore down on him, every jostle and bump along the road bringing a wince to his face. And then there was the chafing. Templars just did not train to sit for long periods on horseback. Ask Cullen to stand in one place for hours on end and he could do it like the best iron-clad statue. Ask him to sit atop a bucking beast and bob up and down all day and he had issues. All together, he felt uncomfortable.

He tried to convince Elishka to let him stay behind at the docks. Did he really have to go _in_ the Tower. But she would hear nothing of it and insisted that he go with her and that he would be safe. They were going to see Wynne and get supplies. It was supposed to be a quick trip. _In and out_, she had said. If he had learned anything about traveling with Elishka these last couple months, nothing was ever _that _simple. Drama and chaos seemed to follow her around like her own personal storm cloud of doom. But as she ordered, he would follow. She had saved his life, what there was of it to save, and for that, he would always be thankful.

Multiple trips were required to get the entire party across the lake. Elishka, Zevran, Bann Teagan went during the first trip. Alistair, Cullen and some guards went during the second.

Uneasiness had filled the air about the dock as they waited on the final grouping to arrive. It was a welcome diversion to Cullen's own discomfiture. His gaze flitted back and forth between Alistair/Teagan and Elishka/Zevran. They had paired off, standing adjacent to one another while quite purposefully seeming to avoid the other pairing, or at least all but Teagan did. Teagan watched and observed much like Cullen.

Once everyone had arrived, Elishka led the way. Cullen hovered close behind her – fear, anxiousness and guilt tearing at his core. Would they even allow him inside? Would they try to kill him immediately? He did not know. What he did know is that this small woman in front of him would fiercely attempt to fight for his well being.

Massive wooden doors parted, entry to the Circle granted. Cullen took in a deep breath.

_Here we go…_


	23. Templar's Nightmare

The tower had been Cullen's home for many years. He had thought he would never see it again. The gentle tug of Elishka's hand within his own drew him through the heavy wooden doors and into his Templar's nightmare.

Lyrium – the smell tingled Cullen's nose with the promise of sweet bliss and the comforts of home. His life at the Circle flashed, the familiar scent evoking memories of both pleasant and unpleasant times past. Need prickled at his skin. His last dosage of lyrium had been earlier in the morning. While Elishka had been providing him with lyrium since his Joining, she had been very careful about the amounts she gave him. _Rations,_ she had called it. It was usually enough to dull the sharp tug of his addiction, but just barely. He breathed in deep the ambrosia, letting the taste of it tickle the inside of this mouth.

Wynne greeted the entourage just inside the main entry hall of the tower. Wynne's face lit up – a happy greeting offered to Alistair, Zevran and Elishka. "I should be cross with you all for not letting me know you were..." Her words stalled at the sight of Cullen. Brows knitted together with disapproval.

If there was one mage at the tower that had the power to make the Templars quake in their plate boots, it was Wynne. It wasn't that she was exceedingly powerful. Rather, she just had a way of looking at a person that could totally disarm them and make them feel as if they were four years old and about to be sent to the corner without supper.

All around Cullen, he could feel eyes upon him – templars and mages all stared, boring little holes into his heavy armor. Judgmental looks were thrown in barrage; unspoken accusations of his guilt and crimes assaulting his mind, drowning out the conversation taking place before him. He saw mouths move, expressions shift from happy to sad to angry to impassive, but he heard nothing snippets of sentences meshed with the echoed screams of his own misdoings.

_Grey Warden…_

_Of course…_

_Why.._

_Socks and shirts darned… _

_Magical touch... _

_More lyrium… _

_Supplies..._

As the grouping moved on, ushered to pass by Wynne's sweeping hand, Cullen followed, his head cast down, all effort made to catch no one particular gaze with his own. He would hold a conversation with his boots – a regular love affair of epic proportions. Silver and shiny, so wonderful to behold, he could stare at them all day.

So intent on his footly focus, he nearly pummeled into Alistair as the group came to a sudden stop. It would have been the perfect topper to an already wonderful day – assault on the King. Curiosity got the better part of Cullen, nudging his gaze up to see why they stopped.

Blocking their entrance further into the tower stood Irving and four other mages. It was not difficult for Cullen to ascertain their purpose given the scowls plastered along their faces and the tension bristling from their bodies. Word had traveled fast in the Circle, his presence announced via mystical messenger.

"I do hope that you've come to return Cullen to us so that he may pay for his crimes, Elishka." Irving's tone was serious and commanding. The First Enchanter had spoken and he full well expected Elishka to listen and obey.

Expectant, Cullen looked to Elishka. She had defended him in the past. He wanted to believe she would defend him now. But a part of him nipped skeptical at his gut. They had never really spoken in great detail about the murders. He had mentioned the voices and what he had done, but they never really sat down and discussed the affair.

"He's a Grey Warden now, Irving," Elishka said. "I am quite sure you realize what that means."

That day at the Circle when Elishka was forced to leave felt as if it happened in another time – another era. The templars had whispered in the halls of the mage that joined the Wardens and escaped punishment.

_She helped a blood mage but escaped punishment thanks to that Grey Warden._

"Indeed," Irving murmured his expression a mix of disappointment and sadness. "Well, I'm sure you understand why I won't allow him further inside." _Him. _He would not say his name. Shame drew Cullen's head down once again.

_She should have let me just stay at the docks…_

"You'd deny the King a member of his personal guard?" The words were asked by Alistair. "Considering all that I have done for the Circle, I can't imagine you'd deny me."

Eyes widened. _What? _Cullen had expected many things to happen at the Circle, but the King coming to his defense was not one of them. His throat constricted slightly – stress and honor twisting his gut simultaneous.

"Your majesty, I would not seek to insult you…not after all you have done for us…but..."

Alistair did not allow Irving to complete the comment, interrupting with, "…but you will not, that is what you mean to say?" Eyebrows cock, a response waited upon.

No one appeared to want to allow Irving to talk. It was Wynne's turn to speak before the First Enchanter could say his piece. Her tone took on a soothing lilt, as if to ease Irving's discomfort simply with the sound of her voice. "I will stay with them. " Light, her hand brushed against Irving's shoulder – something intimately familiar in the stroke of her fingers against the embroidered velvet of his robe.

_No way….Why did I not see that sooner?_

"It's settled then," Alistair exclaimed, already starting his movement further into the Circle. No one dared to stand in Alistair's way – ex-Templar, King, there were many reasons for the gathered mages give no resistance.

And as Alistair went, the group followed. As they rounded a corner, Cullen found his feet unable to move, to continue along. Metal melded with stone.

_The basement doors…_

The last time he had stood in this part of the Circle, his mind betrayed him. Voices screamed, demanding justice, blood, the death of mages. The bodies had long been taken away – his mess cleaned up. But still, vestiges of his actions lingered if only visible to him. His eyes closed, pressing down as if to black out the memories rushing wild into his mind's eye. No such reprieve came.

His stomach lurched – guilt, anger, shame all bubbling into a noxious stew. Self-control fell victim to wave of sick as he bent at the waist and vomited upon the floor. It was too much.

_What have I done? _

She moved so quietly, he had not heard Elishka move to his side. Gentle, tender, her hand rubbed against the back of his neck. She whispered, mouth close to his ear, "I'm sorry, Cullen. I…wasn't thinking."

Her breath prickled at his skin. He did not deserve kindness, hers or anyone else's. Teeth tugged at his lips, tearing bitter into flesh. His voice hoarse, "No, I needed to see it. To know."

"Zev, please see to what we need. I'm going to take Cullen outside to get some air."

Wry, his chest heaved in a snort of a laugh.

_I should have thrown up sooner if that is all it took to go outside._

* * *

_Well that was stupid._

Elishka had thought it would be good for Cullen to face one of his fears right in the eye. She knew he dreaded going to the Circle. But still, she pushed him inside and drug him along, an unwilling puppy pulled along on his leash.

Seeing him now, buckled over, staring at a pool of his own stomach contents, she felt perhaps it had been more cruel than anything to force Cullen to face his demons. A part of her probably wanted to be mean, to punish him for killing two people simply because they happened to be mages. What if it had been her? Would he have struck the blow still simply because she knew how to use magic? She had been avoiding discussing the topic with him. She honestly didn't want to know the answer, only further complications could result from the knowing.

She took his hand in her own and led the way. They maneuvered the hallways, backtracking, until once again they found themselves outside of the Circle tower.

"Sit," she ordered, guiding Cullen to a stone bench just outside the main entry doors.

With little to no resistance, he did as she asked and lowered himself atop the seat. His shoulders slumped forward, heavy. Tears creased Cullen's eyes – be it from anguish or the strain of vomiting, Elishka was not quite sure. "I've done a horrible thing," he lamented. "I mean, I've known I did a horrible thing but somehow, it all seems more real now."

Elishka full well understood what it meant to be faced with the harsh reality of your decisions. Alistair, Jowan, they were the first two that came to mind. "I never told you about Jowan."

Cullen's head lifted only enough to grant him a quick glance at Elishka. "I know that Jowan is the reason you are a Grey Warden."

A bittersweet smile spread slowly across Elishka's lips. "Yes, but you aren't aware that later I found him in the dungeons of Redcliffe Castle. Loghain had used Jowan to poison the Arl." She paused a moment, eyes trailing over to the Lake. "When the Arl asked me what I thought she be done with Jowan, I recommended his death."

"But he was Maleficarum." Cullen's mouth snapped shut immediately. Regret touched his features. "I…"

"No, you are right. He was. But he was still my friend." She shuffled a bit against the stone, adjusting to try to find a more comfortable position. "My point is we all have things we've done that we regret." Her shoulder nudges into Cullen's – a friendly gesture. "And some we don't."

She had failed to save a friend once before because she thought of things as black and white, good and evil. She was happy to have not made that mistake again. Her time as a Warden taught her that things were not always so cut and dry. The world was a sloppy, wet and dirty place. Saving Cullen had been the right thing to do. He had committed wrongs, but so had she. Who was she to pass judgment on him? He had just been misguided, sick. He had deserved another chance. A path of light was carved out of a chalice of dark. In the midst of all the chaos and depression of her post-Blight existence, she re-found a friend, a rare commodity she was not willing to so readily part with.

"We had never talked about it before. I…didn't know. You've kind of avoided me."

The truth stung, a slight wince discoloring her features. "I suppose I have. I've…had other things on my mind." Too many other things dominated her thoughts – Zevran, Alistair, Anora. There had been really little room to contemplate Cullen as well. It was far easier to ignore him, to not open up that door to all that lurked behind.

A chuckle emerged soft from deep in his throat. The mood began to lighten, teasing words making an appearance. "Elishka, I think that is putting it mildly."

Elishka's lips pinched in scowl. "Don't think I won't hit you." As if to prove her point, she raised her hand, fingers curling into a tiny fist.

A lightness of good humor danced across Cullen's features, the sullen and downcast man of moment's past gone. "Don't you think that might make both Zevran and the King jealous?"

Brown eyes widened in shameful horror.

_Asschabs!_


	24. Boundaries

The Circle tower faded into the background, and soon only its top was visible by straining the eyes. Relief and a bit of sadness tugged at Elishka's guise. The Circle was not somewhere she wanted to spend much time. Her previous residence never quite filled her with the warmth and love one would expect of the place they called home. Rules, punishments, fear, too many things a young child should not have to learn to bear, to grow accustomed to. Home was where someone made you cookies and once tucked you into bed at night. No one ever did those things for her at the Circle.

It had been nice to see Wynne, but given the circumstances Elishka had not been able to spend much time with her fellow mage. There were many things she wished to discuss with Wynne – Alistair, wisdom recognized and understood, what her life should become now. But time had been a fickle master, affording Elishka none of its precious attentions and denying her a private audience with Wynne.

_Another time_, she told herself, finding what comfort she could in the thought.

The trip had not been without success, though. Supplies had been obtained; food, more tents, lyrium. Not only that, but for the first time in weeks Elishka felt better about Cullen. While his trip into the tower had been a tortuous one, it had brought Elishka and him back together. The distance between them had narrowed noticeably. She had her friend back and for that she was grateful even if it did mean she'd have to put up with his teasing.

Alistair had played his part in the 'reunion'. He stood up for Cullen when he did not have to. Even in the midst of all the relationship drama, Alistair appeared to have Elishka's back. Was it because he was trying to impress her? Maybe. But still, the gesture was appreciated all the same.

Her heels dug into her horse's side, urging it to speed up slightly so that she might ride up to Alistair. He had taken to riding towards the front of the group while Elishka usually rode in the back along with Zevran. She guided her horse along the side of Alistair's then slowed her pace to match his.

Curiosity piqued, his brow tilting up. "Tired of the view back there?" he asked, a passing glance tossed over his shoulder.

She shook her head in the negative. "I wanted to thank you."

He smiled, his wide grin brightening his entire face. "What for? What did I do this time?"

Try as she might, Elishka could not ignore how handsome Alistair looked at that moment. His eyes lit up, brilliant. His goofy smiles could melt any girl's heart, including her own. And for once, they were not fighting. At least, not yet.

"For Cullen," she answered. "Back at the Circle. You didn't have to. He's not your responsibility."

Alistair's shoulders rose and fell in a simple shrug. "Oh that? Don't worry about it. It was nothing. Cullen and I have become fast friends."

Elishka's own brow rose at that comment. _Fast friends?_ She had not noticed that but she had been a bit preoccupied. "I wasn't aware that you two had spoken."

If she had to describe the look on Alistair's face in that moment, it would be as a mouse caught in a trap holding the last piece of cheese. He tried to brush off his slip with another shrug of the shoulders and a nonchalant look to the side of the road. "Maybe we should stop for lunch soon."

His avoidance of the topic reeked of guilt, but guilt about what Elishka did not know. The little imp on her shoulder that demanded she find out tugged at her ear whispering investigatory commands.

_Get to the bottom of it. You know you must._

"It's a bit early for that," Elishka began. Brown eyes stared at Alistair, trying to discern what he might be thinking or hiding, as if she might find it scrawled across his forehead. No such markings appeared, however, and Alistair's thoughts very much remained his own.

"So, when have you two spoken?" Poke poke, prod prod.

Alistair's face pinched slight. Nervous, he shifted atop his horse. The horse let out a whinny in protest. "At Redcliffe. We shared some cake and wine the night… the night I fell off my horse."

A small _oh_ formed upon Elishka's mouth. It was hard to keeping hearing 'fell off my horse' and not immediately wonder if Alistair did indeed view her as a horse. Her backside certainly wasn't _that_ big.

"I'm sure you had plenty to talk about, did you not? Like me, for instance." She wanted to take back the words the moment they came tumbling out of her mouth. She knew she must have come off as conceited. And while she did want to know what they had spoken about, there _had_ to have been subtle ways she could have done so without point blank coming out and asking.

"Do you always have to know everything?" Annoyance and discomfort took turns coloring Alistair's expression. "Is it really any of your business?"

An all too familiar wryness tugged at Elishka's mouth.

…_so much for that "not fighting yet" bit. _ The storm was brewing – little thunderclouds of ire and spite loomed above, threatening to pour down in a depressive rain.

"I suppose it isn't. I just found the whole thing odd, is all. And you know me, I'm rather nosy." She could readily admit that. Her white flag waved in the air; she would not fight him now… or at least, she would not yet declare an all-out war. "Not only that, I've learned from the best around just how to cram my foot into my mouth as far as humanly possible."

With a tug of the reins, she turned her horse and proceeded to return to her spot at the rear of the entourage in a slow canter.

* * *

Zevran basked in the warmth of the fire as he sat propped upon a fallen log, elbows perched atop bent knees. His expression was one cast in thoughtful repose. Their camp for the evening had been set in a small grove nestled in a copse of trees. With enough tents to go around now, only the guardsmen needed to double up when they were not on watch or patrolling the perimeter.

It made him slightly uncomfortable, allowing others to ensure the safety of the camp. He was used to traveling in smaller groups and having those he personally knew covering the watch. However, the idea of not having to stay up late at night and stare into the empty darkness far outweighed what anxiety he may have felt. Alistair's men had defended their king well enough at the castle, even if there were but two of them left. Horace and Mikl, or so Zevran thought he heard their names to be. They would most likely serve as sufficient enough look outs.

What truly galled him was that he felt he was getting far too sloppy and far too comfortable. Elishka was the root cause, he knew this. He had become so completely overtaken; overwhelmed with emotions he was entirely uneager to deal with. It was becoming impossibly hard to compartmentalize his feelings as he had been trained. A good assassin never let caring get in the way. Zevran was failing for her... and he had to admit, part of him did not care. The warmth he felt whenever in her presence was enthralling. A simple look, a little smile, and he felt another brick he once placed around his heart crumble.

She had worn his earring since he gave it to her the previous morning. The sight of it caused him to swell with pride and affection. Each happy thought was soon sadly followed by a piercing stab of self-doubt. It was wrong for things to feel so right. The pendulum would always swing in the other direction, eventually – one extreme to another. Men like him do not win the favor of the princess at the end of the tale. He had but to only remove a small, folded piece of paper from within a secret pocket in his armor to remind him of that fact.

Fingers moved against the paper tentative, as if by touching the delicate scrap he might get burned. He had carried this memento with him, this reminder of his past mistakes, since leaving Antiva. It was tangible evidence of what happened when Zevran Arainai fell in love. It was what happened when he willingly allowed another dominion over himself.

His body stiffened as Elishka's hands nestled atop his shoulders, pushing down in the beginnings of massage. "No, please, not right now," he murmured.

Her fingers stilled their attentions but lingered atop his shoulders for a few moments before dragging away, unwillingly honoring his request. Elishka stepped over the log and took a seat next to Zevran, cozying herself against him. "What's wrong?"

There were so many ways he could have answered that question, some were gentle, many were unkind. He edged away from her. While comfort might be found in closeness, it would be only temporary – a patch applied to a wound long scarred over. He palmed the paper in his grasp, slight of hand at its best. "I'm going for a walk." He leveraged himself up onto his feet.

Elishka's brows crinkled – troubled, curious. "I'll go with you then." She rose, a hand dragging light against Zevran's arm. Lips spun in quick smile. "Maybe we could find some privacy." _Ah, the coquette wishes to play._

"No," The word snapped out harshly before his mind had a moment to contemplate a more considerate response. And as her face fell in frown, he felt the pinch of regret. "I… need to be alone. Do not follow me. Please." Before she could protest, before she could ply him with her charms, he walked away, slinking into the comfortable and all too familiar darkness of the trees. He needed to think, to try to make sense of the emotions that embroiled within him.

Elishka seemed to have respected Zevran's wishes and did not follow him. Or, he supposed, if she had not he had successfully lost her in the thick of the foliage. He cut an easy path through the trees, making his way into another clearing that lay beside a small pond. He had only but to hear the splash of water and the low melody of a man's oddly off-key humming to know he was not alone.

_Alistair…_


	25. Duty Doesn't Come For Free Got an Itch to Scratch?

Only one person could make humming sound like the screech of a banshee suffering from a hangover – Alistair. The curdled curds of Zevran's mood began to solidify into a more cheesy mass of possible amusement. It would be far more fun to wade into the Alistair filled waters of the pond than to jump off the murky and depressing waterfall of introspection. One would elicit smiles and laughter at another's expense; the other would only bring frowns and anguish at his own expense. Why think about things that would only cause him grief when he could instead have a little fun with Alistair?

Sneaking up on Alistair was a pedestrian task, no true test of the assassin's skills. Shadows manipulated, his figure obscured, Zevran walked closer to the shore line. Alistair was bathing, that much was obvious. A silly grin spread wide across Alistair's mouth as another ear wrenching tune burst forth in low murmur.

_No wonder they kicked him out of the Chantry…_

Alistair's kingly garments were tossed in a rumpled pile adjacent to a fallen log.

_Too easy…_

Decisions were made for the elf as Alistair began to tromp out of the water. There would be no getting into the water. And now, most certainly, Alistair would notice his clothing moving by invisible hand. A step to the side enabled the Antivan to easily avoid a collision with the dripping wet and naked King. Zevran's presence still had not dawned upon the man-boy. As Alistair bent to retrieve his pants and begin the process of redressing, the prankster took his opportunity. The last time they had been alone, he had planned a little surprise for Alistair and received one of his own instead. The time had come to finally give his gift to the King. Hand flattened, he swept in and smacked the King quite soundly on his exposed bottom. Lips pressed together quite firm in an attempt to stifle the laugh burgeoning upon their upturned curvature.

"Ow," Alistair exclaimed, quickly turning around to see what or who may have swatted his unsuspecting bum.

Exaggerated flourish poured into the bow Zevran bestowed upon Alistair. "Would you not say the full moon is quite wonderful tonight?" The dam broke loose; laughter erupted, taunting and light.

Anger flushed Alistair's features red. Fingers curled into meaty fists ready to pummel the trickster before him. "I could have you arrested for that!" His voice raised an octave, a whining timbre, "You hit the King!"

"A king indeed," Zevran intoned slippery. Amber eyes rove predatory along the nudeness of Alistair. "One has but to see your specter to know you are royalty and to understand why the little Warden grew so fond of your…" The grin sliding across his face arched up even further, the corners of his mouth near colliding with his cheeks, "…affections."

A growl gurgled in the back of Alistair's throat, muscles tense with his irritation. "I am going to kill you, Zevran." His arm moved back, a fist to the face Alistair's intent.

Zevran had seen this play before and was more prepared for the fist-ful assault. He launched himself at the ground toward the discarded pile of clothing, rolling to avoid Alistair's sloppy and ill considered attack. "My dear, Alistair, if I only had but a sovereign for every time someone said such sweet words to me. I would be rich!" He rose to his feet, hands quickly snapping up the clothing upon the ground. "You didn't think I'd make it so easy for you to hit me a second time, did you?" Indeed, these bubbling waters were far more fun to swim in.

Alistair wobbled slightly as the result of his miss, his balance tested. Eyes narrow, honing in on Zevran. Hate, spite, all reserved just for Zevran. "Give me my clothes."

Spindly fingers played light with the fabric in their grasp – a shirt here, a pair of pants there. Zevran considered his options; he could give the King back his wardrobe or… "I think not. " With only the kind of flourish that Zevran could muster, he dipped in bow once again for Alistair, russet eyes met with the King's. "Now, Alistair, I do believe we are as you say…even." Never one to waste a perfect opportunity for an over the top and dramatic exit, Zevran allows the umbrae's embrace to feather about him. With a poof, he was gone from view.

* * *

Dirt filled Alistair's mouth as he collided with the ground. He had lunged in leap at Zevran only for the rogue to slink away in typical fashion – a bastard clinging to shadows, lies and slime. Fists smashed into the ground, frustration's push propelled their action.

He lay there on the ground a few moments, breath heaving in and out heavy. He was naked and in the woods with no clothing to put on. And not only that, he was the King of Ferelden naked in the woods with no clothing to put on. How was he going to go back to camp with no one noticing? He had been the foolish one to send his guards away.

_No one is going to attack me while I'm bathing. _

The memory of those words tasted a bit like the dirt that coated his lips.

He pushed himself off the grounds, hands brushing dirt off his thighs and stomach. Mottled spots of moist dirt clung stubborn, resistant to his finger's sweep. "Of course," he muttered bitterly.

"If you are still here, I hope you are enjoying yourself," he yelled at empty air as he walked back to the pond for another quick dip. But nothing or no one responded. If Zevran was still in the area, he was choosing to keep himself a secret.

No happy tunes flowed melodic from Alistair during his second bath of the night. Skin was washed; dirt scrubbed away. When he was finished, he trudged out of the water and had a look about. He wasn't about to walk back into camp in only what the Maker gave him. Surely Zevran wouldn't prance back into camp flaunting his prize. No. He was far too insidious to alert the troops that the King might need assistance. Instead, Alistair knew Zevran would say nothing and leave it up to Alistair to figure his own way out.

Eyes squinted, trying to pierce the darkness swelling in the trees just beyond the clearing. Maybe he could find some branches covered in leaves he could use as makeshift covering. He moved swiftly in the night's air as if it might make his nudity harder to see. All it succeeded in doing, however, was making him more painfully aware of his state of undress.

He pushed through a set of trees finally pausing at what appeared to be some thick foliage, bushy enough that it could provide him a modesty shield. He tore at the foliage and managed to wrap a weaving of leaves about his waist and thighs. A slice of flesh on his thigh side was still visible, but at least his more private accoutrements were hidden from view.

As he started back to camp, he began to formulate a story in his head.

_Bandits!_

No, that would not do. Bandits would have done more than stolen his clothes.

_Wolves!_

Yes, he would go with wolves. They stole his clothing because of the cheese he had stored in a pocket of his trousers. It was almost believable, or so he hoped.

The familiar flicker of flame penetrated the darkness of the forest. A few more steps and Alistair would be back in his tent. He hoped that others would not be sitting around the fire and instead would have gone to bed for the evening.

As he weaved through the final set of trees and entered the camp site, he came to realize it was indeed his unlucky night – first Zevran and now, Teagan, Elishka and Alistair's own guard, Horace, sitting about the fire. Teeth tugged nervous at lips trying to desperately to spring into a small smile. Maybe if he played it off as if it was no big deal, they would not react.

Luck be not his lady. Elishka's eyes widened at the display. Teagan stared for a moment, as if trying to register what he was seeing. The stare soon found replacement in a rather toothy smile. "Your majesty," Teagan greeted, dipping his head in cordial nod. "Is there a reason you are wearing a makeshift skirt of poison ivy?"

_Poison..what…?_

Alistair looked down at the leaves he used to cover himself. Realization dawned harsh and cruel. It had been too dark and he had moved too urgently to pay attention to what leaves he may have grabbed from the ground. He had spent enough time in the forests of Ferelden to have known better, to have known to check.

_I am going to kill you, Zevran._

And almost immediately, the suggestion placed into his head, he began to itch.


	26. Falling off the Horse

Soldier's Peak was less than a half day's ride away when the itching began in earnest. Alistair shifted in his saddle, no one position more comfortable than the next.

He had hoped to escape the rashy affections of poison ivy. Two days had passed with no symptoms. Immediately upon hearing Teagan's helpful comment, Alistair had burst into his tent and tossed his leafy kilt aside. Water was brought to fill a small basin and he gave himself a sponge bath, hoping to wash away any toxic residue that might have clung to his skin. So diligent in his scrubbing, the skin turned red beneath his ministrations.

Zevran was a dead man. As King, he could order it. And while he knew, logically, to order the death of a man simply for a small prank was tyrannical and not fair, the thought lingered in his mind a bit much for his comfort. It would be as simply as signing a single piece of paper. Who would care about a single elf? He knew the answer and exactly why he could never do such a thing. But still, though idea was wrong, he did take some pleasure in the fantasy.

As the rash failed to appear the next morning or even the one after that, Alistair began to believe that he had managed to avoid the worst of it, suffering only from his own vigorous cleaning. Overall, he was no worse for the wear. And in hindsight, he could appreciate a good prank as much as the next man. Had he been given the same opportunity, he could not honestly say he would not have done the same to Zevran.

And then, the itching began.

At first it started as just a tickle so faint he wasn't sure if it was imagined or real. A mile further down the road, the tickle became more of a poke, a single point of contact just on the inside of this thigh where he legs met burning in muted jab. He wiggled his leg as nonchalantly as possible atop his horse as if he could shake off prickly feeling. It seemed to work a little and offer him a modicum of relief.

Two more miles down the road wiggles and jiggles atop the saddle provided no remedy, however. The sensation began to travel across his lower body and rain havoc upon both thighs and other more sensitive, private areas. His face was drawn in perpetual grimace; every bounce of his pelvis atop his steed became an exercise in torture.

Four miles down the road and the pain had become excruciating. His body tensed, legs squeezing deep into his horse with each throb and swell of itching. His horse bucked under the abuse, front legs rising high into the air. Unbalanced and unready for the sudden jerk, Alistair launched backward and collided with the ground. He had fallen off his horse and this time it was not a euphemism.

A new feeling coupled with the crawling burn quaking his lower torso – embarrassment. He lay there upon the ground for a moment, unmoving. It had truly been a wonderful couple of weeks to be King – surprise encounters of the uneasy kind, a broken hand, attacks on his life most possibly perpetrated by his own fiancée, caught with his pants quite literally down, poison ivy and a graceful fall from his own horse. He never thought he would look back at the Blight with longing Laying there upon the dirt covered road, eyes peering up at the now unhorsed party traveling with him, he almost did.

Teagan was the first to extend a hand to Alistair, presumably to help him up off the ground. "I fell," Alistair murmured, never one to shirk from stating the obvious. Gauntlet covered fingers, metal entwining with leather, reached in acceptance of Teagan's assistance.

"Yes, I see that." A tempered smile grew upon Teagan's lips, his arm bending just enough to provide sufficient leverage to Alistair. "It seems to be quite the familial trait." A roguish tilt tugged light at the corners of Teagan's mouth.

_Familial trait?_

Alistair chewed on that comment for a moment, attempting to soak in the hidden meaning in the words. Teagan's quick wit and sharp tongue had always been a trait Alistair admired in the man. However, rather than chuckling at whatever joke may have been intended, Alistair could, at best, manage a somewhat befuddled look and a vague response, "Uh…yes."

His arm flexed, pulling at Teagan so that Alistair might rock himself to his feet once again. Every inch of assent was racked in a very special brand of torture and pain – burning, itching, scraping skin. His breath hitched in his chest, a low whimper bubbling in his throat. There was no disguising this discomfiture.

"Did you hurt yourself on the fall?" Good humor faded as concern took root upon Teagan's expression.

_If only…_

Legs spread impossibly awkward as the stance would keep metal from pressing the fabric atop his abused skin. Alistair knew he must have looked the fool. It showed in the expressions of those around him – the unmoving upturned tilt of Teagan's mouth, the self-satisfied smirk splayed slick across Zevran's lips, and the irritated incline of Elishka's brow. But he itched and what did they expect him to do?

"No, I did not hurt myself on the fall. But I don't know if I can continue to ride." He would let them take what they would from that statement. He was certainly not going to openly state that there was a problem in his pants. He left that variety of statement to the elf. "We…we should stop for lunch," was squeezed out in between winces.

He didn't wait on a response. He was King and they would stop. End of story. He walked with careful step, more a waddle and stagger than a strut, toward a tree. Back pressed against bark, he gingerly lowered himself to the ground.

Fingers had begun to make quick work of his leg armor, plying piece by piece off in between shudders. A coating of what appeared to be ooze slicked the front of his pants, soaking through the cloth that it stuck sticky to his skin. Flecks of red stained the garment – blood. He had actually drawn blood. A growl drew forth from his throat, anger at himself for letting it go on this long, anger at Zevran for stealing his clothing in the first place.

Tentative and hesitant, he peeled back the fabric of his pants to peer at his affliction. But before he could closely examine the lay of the land, he found himself interrupted; words spoken harshly and impatient at him.

"Do you really think it's wise to stop the caravan so that you can engage in a little play with your little toy?" The voice was unmistakable. It was _her voice_. It was Elishka.

He had been reduced to a sniveling teenage boy caught with his hand quite literally down his pants. And while he had good cause for his finger's exploration, it did not lessen the awkwardness he felt.

Quickly, he released his hold upon his pants, letting the fabric fall back against his skin in a moist snap. Lips curl in snarl, heat radiating menacing from his mid section at the suddenness of his movement. "Enjoy kicking puppies when they are down, do you?"

Elishka's cocked an eyebrow, arms entangling about one another in criss-cross fashion over her chest. "Not all puppies, no. The particularly mangy ones though? Of course."

She was taunting him. He knew the game but he did not want to play it. He felt entirely too self-conscious every time he caught a glance of her eyes roving to his groin. He could only imagine with how he had been acting there was some sort of invisible bulls eye affixed there.

_CROTCH: YOU LOOK HERE_

Annoyance contorted the lines of his face in further scowl. "What do you want?"

Her shoulders rose and fell in shrug. "I had thought I would see how you were _really _doing. But I think I already got my answer." Eyes drift down to his lap and back up again, finding his own in an impassive gaze. "I will leave you to your...business."

She could make it all better. A simple spell, a simple poultice and he knew Elishka could make it all better. But there was no way that she would offer to the help he so desperately needed. She would give him the opportunity to ask but beyond that, Alistair was aware it would fall upon him to ask. "Please don't make me beg." It was a whimper of a plea. He would have most certainly begged if necessary.

Elishka had begun to walk away but stalled her departure at Alistair's last comment. A slow turn brought Alistair back into view. Her tongue clicked off her teeth. She was going to be difficult and would not make this easy on him. Alistair's metaphorical clothing was in her hands. "Beg for what, Alistair? You will have to spell it out for me. Us common folk are a bit daft."

This is what it came down to. He was to be made to grovel. "I won't be able to ride if you don't help me. I need healing on my…" His voice dropped low. He squeaked, "…Kingly parts." Heat rushed his face in furious blush.

A dry chuckle, brief and sharp, bruised Elishka's lips. "I would hardly call them Kingly." She took her shot, her aim exacting. "But yes, I suspected as much after your fashion show the other evening." From within a pocket of her robes she withdrew a red vial and offered it to Alistair. "We certainly cannot have the King incapable of siring an heir."

Greedy hands snatched the bottle from Elishka before she could change her mind. "Thank you," he offered genuinely. Without giving it much thought, he immediately started to grab at the top of his pants, preparing to nudge them down and spread on the sweet nectar of his impending relief.

She let out a little harrumph. "Next time be more careful when you try to commune with nature. And please, wait until I'm gone before you pull down your pants again."

Alistair had come too far to stop now. Damn propriety. Damn modesty. A fire needed to be quenched and he would let it smolder no further. "I suggest you leave then."

And leave she did.

With a pour of the liquid, the pain abated. Blistered skin mended. Red bumps receded. The festering itch retreated. And the King-Boy sighed.


	27. Men!

A distance had grown between them – Eliskha and Zevran – and she did not quite know why. One morning he gave her a wonderful gift; the earring dangling proud from her right ear. As evening fell, though, something had changed. He avoided her, he refused eye contact, and he tensed under her touch. And it confused her.

For two nights they did not share a bedroll. The slightest sound outside her tent would bring a thrill to her spine and a hitch to her breath at the prospect his return. But only disappointment came; the space at her side remained vacant.

_ What have I done?_

Her thoughts swirled chaotic. Every minutia of the last few days had been run through and analyzed. Nothing stood out or readily came to mind as the cause for his continued coolness toward her.

Then there was Alistair. His presence brought with it the constant reminder of what was and what could have been. She had told herself they would travel with him only a little longer. They would stay and rest at Soldier's Peak and then push onto Denerim where they could leave him to his Kingly business and the pursuit of his attackers and Anora. But it did not make the time go by any faster, these promises to herself.

And he just had to go fall off his horse with only a level of grace that Oghren could challenge. She had wanted to laugh and tease Alistair, to take advantage of what could have been a wonderful inside joke.

_You need to stop making a habit of falling off your horse, Alistair. You'll get a reputation for it._

But instead she found herself more irritated than amused. She could not find it in within to slide into an easy smile or bounce into a lightness of mood. All she wanted to do was smack him across his stupidly handsome face.

She had gone to help him as he sat against the tree after his 'fall'. It had been Bann Teagan's idea.

_Offer him a poulstice. I believe he's having a..personal issue._

Personal issue was just a delicate way of saying: _The King's Royal Maker itches. _She could have said no. She wanted to say no and let Alistair suffer. She went to help Alistair because Teagan had asked with that patented Redcliffe Castle smile and wink. There must have been something in the water at the Castle that made all the men residing there too charming for their own good.

She was tired of men and their silly games. Men claimed women were dramatic. Pot? Kettle? These men obviously never looked in the mirror or met Zevran and Alistair before.

But she gave him his poulstice and strutted off riding on a cloud to the moral high ground, her nose so high up in the air she could probably have seen what color small clothes the Maker himself was wearing. She was done with Alistair. She was done with Zevran. Or at least, that is what she was tried to convince herself of as they rode through the gates to Soldier's Peak.

Levi greeted the group as they neared the massive stone staircase leading into the Keep. Pleasantries were exchanged.

_It's been too long. _

_Wish we were here under better circumstances._

_You look good._

Dirty looks were tossed about liberally by Elishka to all those _men_ in the party.

_I hate you and I hope you still itch._

_You smell like…cheese, rotten smelly sock cheese._

_Why won't you touch me in that place that I like when I want? I hope you choke on that eloquent tongue of yours!_

She huffed and puffed and tried to keep her distance. She was one joke, one wrong look, one stupid comment away from exploding into a million little pieces of ire and brimstone.

She found the room Levi had told her she could use for the night and slammed the door behind her. She would stay hidden away until it was time to leave again. A strict 'no men allowed' policy was to be enforced at the door. If anyone with man-parts tried to get into the room, she would zap it those bits off with the prickly prickle of electrified fingers.

And as she laid down on the bed intent on smothering away her irritation with a pillow over the face, a knock came to the door. She rolled off the bed with a grumble. If it was anyone with a penis, she was going to kick them squarely in their sensitive bits.

But it was not Alistair and it was not Zevran. Standing in the doorway, his head lowered and neck barred as if to say _I come in peace, _was Cullen. At least it wasn't anyone with a penis, or at least a penis she cared about.

"I came to see if you were hungry." Cullen came bearing gifts and as proof, he held up his hands to show a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese in their grasp.

The sight of the cheese brought an immediate frown to Elishka's mouth. _Cheese? Naturally._ "I'll take the bread, but leave the cheese outside. I've had enough of _that_ to last a lifetime." She moved away from the door and flounced atop the bed. Woe was Elishka.

Cullen hovered in the doorway confusion sparking across his features. "Uh… Does that mean come in?"

A disparaging sigh brushed Elishka's lips in exhale. She propped her supine self up on her elbows and shot Cullen one of _those_ looks. "What do you think, Cullen," she snapped. The little pit viper within was standing at full attention and ready to bite. "Bring me the sodding bread and shut the door behind you."

It was a tentative entrance tinged with hesitance and a touch of fear. Cullen had never been incredibly skilled at checking his emotions at the door. When his nerves rattled him, everyone could tell. Knees would knock, words would be stammered, a _please don't kick me_ sign plastered across his forehead, he was nothing it not transparent. And it left Elishka with the feeling that she had just kicked a puppy with her abusive spattering of a command. "Look..sorry, Cullen. I…" She sank again into the bed. "…am in a bad mood."

The apology does a little to soften Cullen's trepidation. A small smile cracks his tensely drawn expression. "I couldn't tell," Cullen said, the sarcastic taking hold of his tone for a moment. "In fact, none of us could tell. You were doing such a great job of hiding it." He sat the bread down on a small table adjacent to the bed.

Elishka pounded the back of her head into the pillow beneath it a few times. Frustration continued to hold the reins. "Tell me something, Cullen. Why do men have to be complete jerks?"

A wooden chair, more practical than comfortable, became a seat for Cullen as he lowered himself atop it. The ginger slope of an eyebrow cocked curious, "Am I really the person you want to talk to about this?"

A grumble, a groan, the embittered sounds flowed. "Who else am I going to talk to? You are the closest thing I have to a girl friend to talk to around here."

What sympathy had been in Cullen's voice found replacement with something more dry and unamused, "I would have thought Zevran more the girl friend type. Just look at his hair. You'll have to excuse me if I don't take that as a compliment."

He may not have had a penis that she cared about, but he most certainly had a penis. Comparing a man to a girl was probably not the nicest thing that Elishka could have done. "Maybe I didn't mean it to be," was volleyed back in retort. But no sooner had she replied, did she feel a little pang of guilt stab thorny. " Ugh….Maybe I should just join the Chantry and go hide away from the world." It worked well for Leliana for a little while. Would it not also work out for her?

An acerbic laugh came from Cullen. Teasingly, he said, "Yes, because you would fit in so well there."

Taunting was not something she felt capable of dealing with. Cullen wasn't doing his part to be a particularly good confidant. "I should have left you at the Circle."

He continued to rib her. "But then who would be your girl friend?"

She said the first name that came to mind, "Bann Teagan." And the idea of sitting in a room engaging in a little girlie chit-chat with the Bann did elicit a brief flash of a feather light smile. Even in her sour mood, she could find a little humor.

Her change of expression seemed to have evaded Cullen, however. Hints were being heard. A retreat was being prepared. He rose from his seat and peered down at Elishka. "Maybe I should leave you alone."

She really was not the best company. For the health of their friendship and for the sake of her own sanity, it was probably a good idea if Cullen left her alone to her depression. Misery does not always love company. "Maybe you should." Fingers furled about the coverlet on the bed and tugged it over her upper body. She planned to smother herself in the blanket and make everything go away.

As she heard the door close behind Cullen, she let out another hefty sigh from within her cloth covered fortress of solitude. She knew what she had to do. She needed to go confront Zevran and just talk to him – make him talk to her. She could be persuasive when she wanted to be. Hiding in her room was only going to result in the tides of irritation battering her mood to continue to increase their swell.

Her body jolted, a shock of a touch caressing light at her ankle. Had Cullen not left? And if he didn't leave, what was he doing touching her _there_ and like _that?_

She tossed the covers aside, brown eyes going wide as she looked to the man standing at the end of the bed.

_What the…._


	28. Bound

Zevran had been acting like a child. If there had been corners to hide or a bed to slide beneath, he would have scurried to such shrouded retreats. His games with Alistair had been fun – a momentary respite from his own laments.

He had stood in the shadow of a tree and watched as the bastard King hurried about in the dark in all his natural glory. He heard the calls and curses. Each syllable of Alistair's utterances rang sweet in Zevran's ears.

He followed Alistair back to the camp; small laughs bitten back behind tightly pressed lips. His smile faded, though, as he saw her sitting by the fire at the spot he had left her. One look served as a reminder as to why Zevran had walked off to the forest. His elation at tormenting Alistair twisted and turned into something more self-defeating. The joke was on him.

Avoidance seemed the best course of action. Out of sight and out of mind. He became quick tent mates with Cullen. He would replace his own displeasure and discomfort with that of an ex-Templar's. Lascivious commentary, a stolen grope of the hand in jest, he would play his part well and sport his façade as a consummate professional.

_You are a fool and a coward, Zevran Arainai _.

The words echoed more than once in his head as they rode on to Soldier's Peak. She rode in the back of the group at first. Sunlight's kiss tickled faint against the gold of the earring, his gift to her, as she bounced atop her horse. She hovered and gave hungered glances. She was confused and it was his fault but he felt completely unable to do anything about it. A cowardly Crow he had become, hiding away from a small woman and the feelings she evoked in him.

And as her mood changed from sad to angry, from befuddled to irritated, he knew he was part of the cause. Guilt charged in messy and accusing adding to an already overflowing cup. He should have spoken to her and ended his silent siege. But he was not ready. He did not know what he would say – that he had been an idiot, that bad things happened to those he cared for, that she meant more to him than… There were some thoughts he could not complete. If he could not understand it himself and face his reflection in the mirror, how did he expect her to?

A conclusion had been come to as they rode into Soldier's Peak. He was many things, but a coward he would no longer be. He had withstood many things over his life but none scared him as much as this. The unknown was not something he readily rushed toward. He liked knowing his odds and chances – cards on the table for him to see so that bets might be hedged if necessary. But with this mage, he found himself faced with unfamiliar waters. Her words, her actions would determine if he would swim or drown. It was a plunge he was ready to take. He would bare his neck as a sign of submission and pray that lips find it in gentle kiss rather than ferocious bite.

When he saw Cullen leaving her room, he took his opportunity and entered quietly. She laid there on the bed, blankets ensnaring her small form in soft embrace. And so he reached forward, determined to face his fear and let the hand play out as it may. Too long he allowed things to continue in the misty grey, to weaken him with the sticky fingers of self-doubt.

She jerked at his touch. He had been quiet, his presence unannounced until he had been ready. Covers were tossed aside unceremoniously. An astonished look twisted into glare as she looked upon Zevran.

Lips spun into a weak smile – an apology and surrender. "We should talk, no?"

Her leg jerked away from his hand. The rules of their encounter apparently involved no touching. "So now you want to talk?" A sigh filled with resignation floated light over her downturned mouth. "I suppose that we should."

"Yes, that is the decisive little Warden I have come to…" A word came to mind, but it was not one he was prepared to say or even could. Something much safer was opted for, vague and open to much interpretation, "..know."

Elishka's expression crinkled, nose and brows rose up both curious and angered. "So are you going to tell me what has been wrong? You've been different ever since you gave me this thing." She gestured to the earring she still wore in her ear.

He deserved her ire. Zevran had been a very bad man. And while he may have preferred spankings as retribution for his crimes, he realized he owed her more than that. Explanations were mandated. And after the words if she wished to spank him, he would be more than happy to submit to his punishment. "Hmmm..yes, I have. I should explain myself. You see as wondrous a specimen as I may be, there are certain matters that I am shall we say not as skilled at. Sentiment and the expression of it are two of those things. I never did tell you about that mission I had before I took yours. It did not end well."

As she pulled herself into a seated position on the bed her expression softened slightly, righteous anger faded into determined irritation. "No, you never did. Did you fail or something?"

Zevran took a seat beside her, fingers trailing nervous along a seam of the coverlet. Downcast eyes peered intent at the bed. "You might say that, though not in the way you are thinking. There was a woman, Rinna, a fellow Crow. She was exotic, full of life and had eyes like justice. I… As I said, it did not end well." An all too familiar feeling began to tear at his gut. The guilt of what he had done to Rinna had never left him. Paper burned through cloth, his reminder of her and his sins still kept secret within a pocket. But to explain his actions, he had to tell Elishka about Rinna, at least in some detail. He continued, bringing his gaze to find hers anew. He would see her reaction to his words. He would feel the judgment in her eyes. He owed as much to himself, to Rinna and to Elishka. "To make a very sad story short, we were involved and I thought she had betrayed the Crows…and me. So I let Tailisen slice her throat. I spat on her body and cursed her as she told me she loved me. I later found out that she was innocent but the damage had been done. She was gone and it was my fault."

But the looks of disapproval he expected did not come. Something far worse sprung cruel across Elishka's face – pity mixed with a dash of understanding. A hand moved to lay claim to one of his, twisting her fingers about Zevran's. " Zev…"

He interrupted her, "I came to Ferelden seeking a good death, a task I failed at quite marvelously thanks to you. " This was his tale to tell. Her words were unnecessary and only prove to make things far more difficult. If he stopped now and let her speak, he feared he would not continue. "And before you ask, no, I do not wish to die. You freed me from the Crows and for that I shall always be your thankful and faithful servant until you wish me to not be so." His free hand rose and flicked gentle against the dangle of the earring in her ear.

She slipped easily into tease. A toothy smile appeared tipped with the careful flick of her tongue. She had seen an opening given, an opportunity that she did not squander, "You've served me quite well…"

A puppet with his strings being pulled, the puppeteer knew him too well. A playful phrase spoken in just the right tone had been volleyed in his direction. But he resisted her tug and fought stubborn against her pull. "Tsk...I am trying to be serious. As I said before, sentiment is not something I am completely comfortable with. I had thought this between us would be a nice diversion, but…"

Lips pinched together pensive. She stared at him as if trying to search out the unspoken end to his last statement, one he had purposefully left open ended. Moments pass, a heaviness cloying in the air with each passing second smothering Zevran with nervous anticipation. The question she asked was not one he expected, "Are you trying to say that you love me?"

It met with a rapid fire reaction. "No," he said quickly. He had been raised and trained on the illusion of the feeling. And it was one he was not quite ready to face the full meaning of. Those he has loved or thought he loved had a tendency to die. "I mean, how does one know such a thing? I suppose in a rather clumsy way I am asking where do you see this going?" He shifted atop the bed, his discomfort unhidden. His bravado was failing him, smothered by the anxious man within.

"Oh." Her hold upon his hand loosened as she slid off the bed and walked to her pack. She bent at the waist and began to dig inside the bag as if in search of something in particular. "At this very moment? I'd like to see this going to naked bits with you flat on your back and tied to the bed." A look was tossed over her shoulder, searching him out, "But I don't suppose that is what you meant..."

Smooth, he slid into easy smile. _The games this one likes to play… _"It is not what I meant but it is not something I would object to either." But it was not what he had meant. She was right. "I meant… Alistair is not the sharing type." And neither was he. It had come down to this. She would have to choose. He could not continue not knowing. It was a game that he started and now he had to know who would be the winner – the man-boy or him.

Two tendrils of rope dangled playful from her hands – the treasure sought out within the confines of her rucksack. "I know what you meant." She set the rope on the bed and began to work upon the fasteners of Zevran's armor. Buckles, latches, all gave way to the expert maneuvering of her well practiced digits. And he could have protested and stopped her. But he did not.

Instead, he relished in the way she took command and guided him to lay along the bed. He let out a whimper of a sigh as tooth nibbled fingernails raked ragged over the flesh of his thighs on their path to his waist. She tugged the leather kilt from over his hips to eventually cast it aside on the floor. He complied as she had him sit up slightly to free him from his chest armor. He completely surrendered when she took his right arm and lifted it above his head. Rope twisted in knot along the bed frame and soon ensnared his wrist roughly.

Tautly, the rope was pulled eliciting a wince as twine dug into his flesh. She repeated the steps with his left arm and wrist, leaving Zevran exposed and vulnerable along the bed. And he did not care. She could do whatever she wanted to him and he knew he would beg for more.

She broached the silence with further answers, "If you are asking me if I still have feelings for Alistair, the answer is yes."

Conflicting emotions coursed through Zevran. Excitement at her touch collided with sadness at her words.

An all too knowing caress of the hand slipped down his stomach and sought target between his thighs. She very much had him where he assumed she had wanted him. Her mouth found his ear, her breath hot and intoxicating against his skin. "If you are asking if that affects me and you, the answer is no."

His head turned, his mouth seeking hers and failing. She hovered inches too far. The picture was there just out of view and she held the brush. With the masterful stroke of her hand, the picture painted became more visible but still blurred. "You are being deceptively vague, my dear."

"I've learned a thing or two from you." _Or three, or four…_ He pressed his body into the bed as her hand continued its playful assault upon him. Lips found his chest, teething tugging rough at a nipple. A moan was her reward for a job well done. _ This woman…_ She continued, "…like how to tie a very good knot, how to keep a person hanging and wanting more…." And suddenly everything went cool. The warmth of her hand's touch left him. The possessive pinch of her teeth drug away. He was left on the bed, alone and unmasked.

His head lifted as far as possible off the bed, a few inches and nothing more. He tugged at his bonds finding them unrelentingly strong. He had taught her well indeed. She moved to the doorway, fingers curling about the side of the now opened door. "…and how to walk away without so much as a second glance." In a flash, he knew her intentions. The smile that formed upon her lips sealed his fate. She would have him suffer. She would leave him here with only his thoughts and unsatisfied passion as company. And as the door shut and she left, he knew the answer to the question he had avoided asking himself.

_I am Zevran Arainai and I am in love._


	29. Stew On This

Elishka's chest heaved a frustrated sigh as she shut the door to her room and leaned against the dark wood. Her past had been filled with difficult tasks: surviving her Harrowing, fighting a high dragon, defeating an archdemon. Nothing, however, felt as difficult to her as walking out of that room and leaving a naked and vulnerable Antivan atop the bed. A blush had laid claim to her cheeks and excitement prickled at her body at the thought of Zevran lying there like _that._

She had listened to him tell his tale, give his excuses. He had told her of a previous woman in his life, Rinna. Betrayals both Zev's, actual, and Rinna's, perceived, brought a rather final end to that relationship. He had feelings for Elishka, or so he hinted. She recognized the unease in his eyes and the discomfort in his gestures. To confess such things had not been easy for him.

She wanted to be angry with Zevran, to yell, scream, smack him on the head and muss that precious hair of his. But instead, as he looked to her with pleading eyes, she felt her determination waver. She was leaning over the edge of the cliff, ready to plunge into the uncertain darkness below and allow it to envelop her. She had spent her time in the light and it had burned. She wore her scars openly for all to see. But in this elf, in this assassin, she saw a promise of healing and it scared her.

And then he asked her to make a choice, a decision she never considered he would ask her to make. The boundaries of their relationship had remained undefined to this point. They shared most everything and had spoken openly to one another or had until the previous two days. It had been something fun between the pair, a distraction from her laments. In his arms, she found comfort and relief. Zevran made her laugh, smile and forget _him_ if even for just moments.

She found she could not give Zev the answer he was seeking. It clung on her tongue heavy and burdensome but did not wish to be spoken. She could not deny her feelings for Alistair. As much as she might wish it, a snap of the fingers did not make all they had been to one another instantly disappear. Instead, she decided to toy with her assassin and deal with emotions in a way she had grown accustomed to. A little slide of the hand _here_, a little tease of the fingers _there_, it had been easy. Zevran was not the only one that could play avoidance games. He had taught her well.

And she stood there in front of the door, fingers lingering on the door knob. She could go back in. Her point could have been made even if he suffered but a few brief moments. She steeled her resolve, however, and tugged her hand away from the cool metal handle. Feet clicked together and her head nodded just once. She would resist his lure for no other reason than to punish him, if but just a little, and to avoid questions and decisions she was wholly unprepared to make just yet.

Saved by the dinner bell, her belly began to rumble. A Grey Warden's duty to their unending appetite was never done. This was a decision she had no difficulty in making – to the kitchen she would go and search out a meal. She could replace one hunger with another and drown her frets and worries in some wine and food.

An all together familiar and unpleasant smell tickled at her nose as she neared her destination. There was only one thing in all of Ferelden that could smell quite like _that_. Alistair was cooking. There had been many a time at camp when it was his turn to cook that others had gone without eating. Elishka always ate her fill and then some. She did it because the hungerspawn of her stomach would not relent unless fed. She did it because it made _him_ smile when she asked for more. She did it because she loved him.

Circumstances had changed. While the darkspawn taint still played fast and furious with her appetite, she no longer cared if he smiled and she no longer cared if she loved him. Doors had closed and were to remain locked. If stew was all there was for dinner, she would find something else to eat.

It was with this attitude that she walked into the keep's kitchen. No favors were bestowed upon her as she noticed only Alistair in the kitchen.

_The Maker certainly has it out for me today…_

"Your Majesty," she greeted with a cordial nod of the head and an impassive expression. "I trust you are feeling..better?"

"Uh yes, about that….thank you." Alistair shifted a bit uncomfortably where he stood before motioning to the pot he was stirring. "I made stew." Pride beamed in his expression. He still seemed to operate under the belief that his 'special' stew was good.

A frown tugged at Elishka's mouth. "Yes, I could smell that down the hallway." She refrained from mentioning people in Denerim could probably smell it.

The smile did not fade, Elishka's subtle hinting at the stench either escaped Alistair or he chose to ignore it, "Smelled that good that you had to come in and have some?" A ladle full of stew is uplifted and offered to her.

"No," she answered without hesitation. Her hand flitted about in the air, shooing the spoonful of goo away. Shelves littered with a bevy of food items caught her attention.

"But..but, you've always liked it in the past." Alistair's voice did that thing that she hated; it squeaked and whined like a little boy who just had his favorite toy stolen. "I remember you coming back for seconds and thirds even!"

"I never liked it. I lied." Another illusion shattered. To her many new titles, she could add another: Elishka, Killer of Dreams. She tossed the words, reckless and uncaring. His precious ego she would not massage. The kingly pout was something meant to look cute and make her weak in the knees. She knew the look all too well. Alistair had it exclusive rights to it. But as he twisted that mouth into a downward simper, she only found herself more annoyed and determined _not_ to comply with his wishes.

Sulking bravado washed away. Something more angered and bruised overtook Alistair. His tone became agitated, matching Elishka's already acerbic lilt, "I could order you to eat it, you know." He edged away from the pot and began to move toward her.

Abuse of power had not ever been received well by Elishka. Templars, Loghain, Arl Eamon, so many men had tried to lord it over her and make her do their bidding, their will. She had begun to see the tarnished gloss of such arrogance upon Alistair. "We've seen just how much your _orders_ have worked on me in the past, have we not?"

He was too near. He hovered and she felt the breath leave her lungs. She was the Hero of Ferelden and yet she felt everything begin to twist and coil uncertain and uncontrolled. Alistair was her personal Blight that needed to be ended one way or another. She just needed her own… _"_Grey Warden here. I don't have to listen to you." The confidence that filled her step upon entering the kitchen had begun to falter in quickly spoken words and nervous gesturing.

Displaced air brushed against her cheek as he moved his hand but inches from her to press it against the wall. And he leaned, staring down at her resolute. "Yes, you've made that abundantly clear."

Their wills collided – a tit for a tat. For some time they stood there, the silence cloying, heavy, and smothering in the air. She knew she should say something. There was a witty retort in her head just itching to get out. But no such cleverness graced her tongue. The next words spoken would force action, his or hers. That much she was sure of.

And just as she thought she could stand it no further, that she was about to lose the staring game and have to concede defeat, a cough pierced the quiet and drew both of their attentions to the doorway.

Nervousness ticked across Cullen's features as he looked to the tense pairing across the room. "Um, a message arrived for the King," he offered while holding up a folded piece of parchment.

Elishka felt the heat of Alistair's gaze land squarely upon her once again. His mouth opened as if to say something. But soon lips pressed down firm against one another; whatever thought that lingered bitten down and kept within. With the aid of a push of his hand against the wall, he walked away from Elishka, tension snapping free in the air and wafting away. His hand out stretched to Cullen and took the letter.

"It's from Eamon," Alistair explained as he peeled away the wax seal and began to read the contents of the missive.

Elishka's eyes closed down tight. Composure was reformed with the assistance of deep exhale of air. Business took the forefront. Whatever had just transpired or almost happened between Alistair and she would have to be considered at another time. A brown colored brow lifted in query, "How did he know where to find us?"

Alistair's shoulders rose in a simple shrug. "I told him about this place once. Perhaps he just assumed? I've stopped trying to figure out how Eamon knows the things he does." He looked down to the paper within his grasp and read further before adding, "Eamon sent out troops after he heard about the attack at Redcliffe. Thomas Howe has been captured and is sitting in Fort Drakon. He seems to have been behind the attack. He was bitter about his family being stripped of all titles and lands and apparently planned a coup."

A picture had begun to be painted quite clearly in Elishka's head. It explained why the men at Redcliffe wore the Howe family crest. But one thing remained unanswered. "And Anora?"

Disappointment shadowed Alistair. It was a question he too appeared to wish answered. "No mention of her beyond that no one knows where she may be."

Secrecy on the road no longer seemed necessary. If the men that wished Alistair dead had been captured, surely it would be safe to return to Denerim. No measure of disguise was used to hide the relief in her tone, "We should leave for Denerim in the morning." And once in Denerim, she could be rid of Alistair.

"Maybe we should send Zevran away…." There was something almost begging in the way Alistair looked to her as if sensing her pleasure at soon being rid of him. They would drift apart again; a prospect the bastard King was none too pleased about given the whisper of a frown he wore. As if caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he quickly added, "…to find information on Anora. Where is he anyway?"

She had completely forgotten Zevran and Cullen, who still stood in the doorway looking even more uncomfortable than usual. If she had been a nicer person, she might have offered a small smile to Cullen. But she was still cross at him for his earlier interruption of her pity fest with his whole 'having a penis' and 'being a man' thing. "He's tied up at the moment," she said casually. She looked to Cullen and says rather nonchalantly, "Why don't you go get him. He's in my room."


	30. It Burns!

The scenery changed. No longer were they moving from campsite to campsite. However, Cullen's unofficial title hadn't seemed to change. He was still the errand boy, still the 'camp' bitch. A message arrived for the King and everyone present in the entry hallway including the King's own guards turned expectant to Cullen as if the title was scrawled across his head. So he took the missive and proceeded to where he had been told the King could be found – the kitchen.

And there they stood, Elishka and the King. Inches apart and a visible tension sparking between the pair, it seemed they would either hit one another or… He did not want to contemplate the other option. Some images could not be erased away once they entered the mind. And that particular painting he did not wish to have splashed across the walls of his brain.

It was a private moment he should not intrude upon. But there was this letter and it burned at his fingers. It could be important or not. But what if it was important? He may have been the Grey Warden servant boy, but he did take some measure of pride in at least doing a job well done. And Alistair had been his friend. And he was over thinking things and letting his mind go crazy as to not think of other things that would be less pleasant and more squicky. So he coughed, announcing his presence.

A slow turn of both their heads brought Elishka and Alistair's attentions upon Cullen. What resolve he managed to store up and expend waffled a bit under the weight of their gazes. Discomfiture jittered his stance and nervousness bit at his mouth with the quick brush of his tongue against his lips. His voice cracked as he offered the reason for his intrusion on their special _moment._

He listened as Alistair read the details of the letter and spoke of politics and coups. He listened as Elishka spoke of leaving immediately for Denerim and questioning the whereabouts of Anora. And he nodded as she asked him to go find Zevran. Yet another order given. Yet another task for him to complete.

Hand curled into a loose fist, he rapped lightly upon the door to Elishka's room. Logic for his own safety compelled him to knock before entering. The prudent would not barg into a room occupied by a skilled assassin.

The slippery and dulcet sounds of Zevran's voice edged through the door in response, "Who is it?"

He shifted anxiously in front of the door, eager to be done with this task. "Cullen."

"Come in." At the invitation to enter, he twisted the knob and opened the heavy wooden door.

As he entered the room, he stopped dead in his tracks just past the doorway. His eyes burned with the image before him – Zevran in all his tanned glory lied exposed along the top of the bed. No clothing, no nothing, no….hair _there._ "You're…..naked," he exclaimed quickly turning around to shield his eyes from the horror.

Words batted at Cullen; a cat playing with a defenseless mouse. "Ah yes, I was hoping for our fair Warden's return, but I suppose you will do. "

He would not turn around again. Feet remained firmly planted against the stone flooring. It was bad enough that every time he closed his eyes he saw _it_. "Your….it's out…I can see it!" He raised his arm and flitted his hand about at empty air as if trying to gesture to the offending 'appendage'.

The elf let out with a woeful sigh, "Alas, I am afraid that is a side-effect of being nude." And even though his back was now to Zevran, Cullen was sure he could sense the assassin's grin broaching on perverse. "Now, come over to the bed and make yourself useful."

"I don't… I mean…what?" He was here for a purpose but it escaped his mind. The image of a naked Zevran would not leave his mind and completely overwhelmed him. It was not that he had not seen men naked before. Templars shared close quarters. It was more that it was _this elf_ in _that way_. Faint recollection of his chore pierced his brain fog, "Elishka sent me for you."

Zevran said, his voice rich with a pouting lilt, "Pity I am a bit..indisposed. Am I so truly horrible to look upon that you must turn away like that, dear Cullen?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean…by the Maker." The ability to translate thoughts into speech was truly hindered by the constant replay of pictures in his head. Everything was a jumble and punctuated with flashes of skin. "No offense, but you are the last man in Ferelden I'd want to see…all naked."

"I should be hurt; however, I suppose there is no accounting for taste," Zevran tsks. A beat was not skipped; an opportunity seized upon with an air of mischief, "Are you saying there are other men you would like to see naked? The King perhaps? I have noticed how close you two have become."

Cullen's eyes widened. His response was immediate and without thought, "NO!" The kettle finally bubbled over. The final straw had been broken. He turned and looked at Zevran, ignoring the lower half of the elf's body. "You know what? No, I'm done. No more. You can stay like that for all I care." He was tired of being everyone's favorite chew toy. And he was going to take his stand. Just not in this room.

He did not give Zevran a chance to offer a witty retort. Turning on his heels, he made a quick exit from the bed chamber and made his way back to the kitchen with a speedy and stompy step.

He stormed through the doorway, nostrils flaring, shoulders tugged back in a determined posturing. He looked directly to Elishka, his ever-cruel commandant, "If you want Zevran, you can go get him yourself. No more Cullen the whipping boy. No more nude men. No more. No." Hands shot out in front of him, crisscrossing in front of one another. See the hands? Hands don't lie. He was done.

Elishka's brow quirked disapprovingly at Cullen. Lips pressed together and her head tossed in shake. "I swear if I want something done right, I have to do it all myself!"

She would get no argument from Cullen. "In this case, yes, you go do it yourself. I have to draw the line somewhere and I draw it at naked elf with his…_parts_ all out on display." Search for bear dung in the forest? That was behind the line. Be the King's own personal spy into the love affairs of his commander? That was also behind the line. Deal with Zevran in all his natural glory? No, that was way over the line and off in the Anderfels somewhere.

Her chest rose and fell in a harrumph as she looked incredulously at the ginger rebel. He stood his ground, though, and did not crumble under the weight of her gaze. "Fine," she grumbled before pushing past Cullen and leaving the kitchen. Cullen had won the battle.

He hovered in the doorway, soaking in the glow of his victory when his reverie was interrupted by Alistair. "I assume you are hungry?" He offers up a bowl freshly filled with hot stew.

Food? In theory, the idea of food sounded good to him. In practice, he was not quite sure if he could manage to keep food down. A queasy feeling clung stubborn to his stomach. "I don't know if I can eat," he explained as he moved further into the room and took a seat at the large table prominent in the middle of the room.

No was not an option. The King stuck the bowl of steamy nourishment in front of Cullen. "Oh just humor me and try. It's my special stew. It's very good if I don't say so myself." A welcoming smile complimented Alistair's offering.

Back behind the line, Cullen skulked. His celebration in taking a stand was short-lived. He did not want to eat, but as it was the King making the request, he felt he had no choice but to comply. "Ok." The taste filling his mouth was noxious at best and rancid at worst. It took every bit of resolve he had left to swallow down the first gulp of the overly chunky stew.

Expectant and all too eager, Alistair watched as Cullen ate. "Good isn't it?" The King waited until Cullen offered a weak smile and nod of the head in some sort of admission of yumminess before asking his next question, "So, naked elf? " Alistair took a seat at the table with Cullen. He began working on his own bowl of stew as he waited on the gritty recounting of the details.

Two wrongs did not make it right. The taste of the food in his mouth and the remembrance of Zevran on that bed only caused Cullen's stomach to lurch further. With the aid of a deep breath and another forced swallow of the King's cooking, he tried to answer as best he could, "Tied to the bed and the image won't leave my head." His voice dropped down to a whisper, "He had no hair….down there." He wanted to ask if this was normal. He wanted to know why a man would shave _there. _But he withheld his questions and kept himself restricted just to the facts.

Upon hearing the Cullen's last statement, Alistair's face turned a peculiar shade of green, features twisting disgusted. He pushed away his serving of food and said, "And there went my appetite."


	31. Teacher's Pet

It was not the first time and certainly was not to be the last that Zevran found himself bound and vulnerable. A person did not engage in his particular profession without dealing with a bit of rope 'play' now and again. And Elishka had played him well.

He also had to admit that perhaps he deserved just a little of the torture. He had been an insufferable child by avoiding her. It had been silly and stupid and all those things he knew he was better than. But still, he cowered in the shadows, taking part his little avoidance games.

_The great Zevran, indeed…_

He could appreciate the punishment in theory. In practice, however, it smarted and began to leave his arms a bit numb. The reprieve from the pain that came from dulling of sensation was quite welcome. Unfortunately, the numbness brought its own worries. He was quite fond of his arms and hands and was not completely ready to part with them. Limp and uninspired limbs would have certainly hindered his ability to assassinate.

Muscles stretched and contracted as he tried his best to pull and tug at the bonds about his wrists. The makeshift pull-ups caused an all too familiar sting to radiate sharp and piercing along the length of his arms. It got the blood flow going but was only a temporary patch.

He suspected he had but only to last a little longer. Cullen's quick entry on Elishka's marching orders and his rapid exit on his volition meant Elishka would come back soon. And as he expected, she did.

The door opened with little ceremony as she entered and made her way toward the bed. Zevran's weapons had been discarded onto the floor during his disrobing session. She bent down, retrieved one of the daggers from its sheath, and began to cut at the ropes about a wrist. Relief would come in moments and for that, he let out a small sigh.

"As happy as I am that you finally found some extra rope sitting about," he started, a small smile sliding across his mouth.

But he was cut off, his witty and clever repartee silenced as Elishka interrupted, "Alistair got a letter from Eamon. Thomas Howe was behind the attack. " Her tone was all business – serious and professional.

His left hand fell atop the bed as the rope was shorn away from about his wrist. The arm felt all together too heavy and numb from its lengthy extension above his head. He moved it to rest along his chest. The grimace that begged to form was bitten back behind a question, "And Anora?" If she wished to talk serious, he would talk serious – at least until he was untied.

Elishka's focus remained on her task. Not once did her gaze drift and take in Zevran's. In so far as he could, there was only the rope, his wrist and the dagger in her hands that mattered to her. The blade made quick work of the bindings about his right arm. "No idea. She's still missing. We are leaving for Denerim tomorrow."

Blessed freedom was his. Sensation began to travel throughout both arms in prickles of needle like pain. It almost did not register that she had mentioned Denerim. But as he recognized that he had indeed heard her mention Ferelden's dully polished stone of a city, he arced a brow curious, "And after that?"

She set the dagger aside on a nearby table and then took a seat on the bed adjacent to Zevran. Shoulders rose and fell in a simple shrug as she finally looked upon him with an impassive glance, "We leave."

He had not forgotten her words earlier in the day. She claimed still to have feelings for the King-boy; a small fact that disturbed him more than he would care to admit openly. "Hrm…. You do not wish to stay in Denerim, perhaps?" Did she not wish to stay with Alistair? He could not bring himself to ask outright what he wanted to know. Double-speak, innuendo, these were ways of communicating he was far more comfortable with. The direct approach when it came to his feelings? That was a path least traveled.

Silence hung in the air for a few moments. Elishka leaned back against headboard propped pillows and let out a long sigh before finally offering a response, "So…Alistair made his stew."

It was not quite what he expected or wanted to hear.

He stretched his arms over his head, fingers twisting about one another and pulling upward. The limbs were starting to feel normal once again. "Did he? And because he made his infamous stew you do not wish to stay in Denerim? Did you eat your fill? Has it lost its lure and luster? I seem to recall you had a fondness for his cooking…"

Hidden subtext sprinkled his latest set of questions and he could only hope she was able to surmise his unspoken meaning. It was the game they played with one another. Speak but do not speak. Say but do not say. And he would not make his next move, unless she spoke the words he needed to hear.

Her head lolled to the side, eyes casting intently upon Zev. Four words eased simple and soft from her mouth. "My tastes have changed."

So much possibility lingered in the phrase – a promise unspoken, an admission given. Perhaps too desperate in his willingness to take the leap, too eager to see what may not be there, he rolled to the side and atop her, pulling her down flat along the bed. His movements were fast and without warning.

Mage robes were quickly becoming his favorite type of armor. They were speedy to remove and even quicker to tear, especially the ones she was wearing: thin and revealing, the best kind. He would hear later, no doubt, about how these were her favorites, but he did not care. Hands gripped at the fabric and ripped open the bodice. Her body gave a jolt at the aggressiveness but she did not attempt to stop him.

They had started something earlier in the day with her teasing, prodding and stroking. The time had arrived for him to engage in a little toying of his own. The soft swell of a breast came under the attentions of his mouth – tongue and teeth doing all those things he knew caused her to flush. A roving glance raked along the pale of her skin to find her own. If she had thought he would drop the subject so quickly, she had been mistaken. She might have bested a master, but she still had a great many things to learn. "Do tell…"

From deep within his thrall, he tugged her back. "What?" Her hand pressed against her forehead, fingers twirling chaotic in her hair. Lips licked; a small sigh escaping. "I prefer something with a bit more flavor now…" His fingers slid beneath her robes in a well-rehearsed manner. He knew _the _spot. Her eyes fluttered shut, back arching and hips pressing into his touch beckoning him to continue.

Close to the edge, he brought her only to withdraw his hand. She let out a begging moan as he tore further at the fabric of her robes, exposing her lower half. Hands pressed against softness of her thighs, edging her legs apart. A trail of kisses lined the center of her chest and stomach. Each whimper and shake only further spurred him to continue, to tease and caress. "And perhaps a little smoother on the…" She was primed. "…tongue?" A nip _here_, a lick _there_, he was nothing if not a master of his _craft_. "Or a bit more refined?" Fingers feathered against their target.

The maestro conducted the orchestra in a sweet aria. "By the Maker, yes," she lets out in a whisper-moan. Her hands grabbed at the coverlet, fisting material in their grasp. Feet pressed into the bed, hips moving toward Zevran. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. "…I mean..yes."

He pulled back and slid up her body, letting a hand glide delicately up her mid section, chest and eventually stopping to clutch her chin. He turned her face to his own. Lips curled into a playfully cruel smile. His brows peaked curiously, "Yes to what, my little Warden?" He would make her say it.

Half-lidded eyes found his in a gaze teaming with desperation and need. "The tongue…definitely the tongue," she rasped.

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers in the barest of kisses before murmuring, mouth against mouth, "No." He had something else in mind. "Now, I can go on like this all night." Subtext tossed aside. A question hovered in the air unanswered from earlier. A decision had to be made. He rolled atop her, pinning her to the bed beneath him, hips pressing against hers. Tooth and tongue toyed with an ear, more words whispered, "Tell me who you want."

He felt her hand find him and caress him in the way she knew he liked. "You. Zevran, I want you." And everything melted. Bodies entwined -- a lover's dance of slow and steady dips and twists. It had been like this once before in another land. Distant memories were cast aside in favor of the new. He was lost in the wave's crest until he could bear it no longer.

And as they lay there, within the afterglow of the moment, she whispered carefully and tentatively the words he was waiting to hear, "I pick you by the way."

The final shards of armor upon his heart shattered. He took comfort in the familiar, in his usual bravado and flair. A wicked smile in place, he whispered, "Good."


	32. It's Not So Good To Be The King

The road to Denerim was paved in bad thoughts and sour moods. Alistair had done it to himself. He stupidly had asked Cullen for the details. Imagination was a horrible thing to waste and his was being extremely over enthusiastic in its gluttony. He hoped the picture he painted in his mind was far worse than the reality of the situation. His brain ran rampant with pictures of rope, cheese, flung off clothing and shaved bits. He just knew dirty, perverse Antivan sex happened and it made him want to punch a dirty, perverse Antivan.

Given the change in both Elishka and Zevran's moods from glum and irritable to absolutely giddy and beaming, he suspected he was probably spot on with his assumptions. There were giggles, smiles, gropes and smirks exchanged between the pair. His stomach churned at the sweetness of it all. What did Zevran have that he did not? A crown? No. A fancy title? No. Great hair? Well, yes, he did have that…on his head.

The thoughts traveled full circle and invariably back to the one subject Alistair tried very hard _not_ to think about.

_He has no hair…down there._

Was that the secret to Zevran's popularity with the ladies? Leliana never had given Alistair a good answer when he asked her about the Antivan and his popularity with the fairer sex.

Either way, for all appearances, it seemed Elishka was _with _the elf now and it burned more than he thought it might.

* * *

Denerim – home of the King, capitol of Ferelden, city where Alistair expected Elishka to say her good-byes and disappear from his life once again. Throngs of people met the travel party at the gates. The crowds had gathered to welcome their King back into the city's fold. Their cheers and attempts to touch him left Alistair uneasy and uncomfortable.

He had never gotten used to this reverie. He was just a man that happened to be lucky enough to be born into a noble bloodline. Did this make him better than those lining the streets? Not in his mind, it did not. He was just Alistair -- cheese lover and wearer of dirty socks. He waved and smiled. He put on the ill-fitting outfitting Eamon picked for him with through hours of lessons in etiquette and Kingly manner. He played his part as he knew he was expected, as he knew was his duty.

Eamon awaited the party as they entered the Royal Palace courtyard. The expression the grizzled politician wore was all too familiar to Alistair -- all business in the front and no party in the back.

"Don't look so happy to see me, Eamon," he managed as he dismounted his horse and began walking to the Chancellor.

The fanfare at the city gates failed to be mirrored within the castle courtyard. Eamon's demeanor remained his usual shade of grey as his head dipped in a cordial nod for Elishka and his brother. Back to the King, he turned, "I trust my message found you. We were quite relieved to discover the coup a failure, your Majesty."

"Yes about that I understand Thomas Howe is at Fort Drakon."

"He is indeed, your Majesty. He has been resistant to interrogation. He's rather stubborn like his father, I am afraid."

Interrogation – such a noble way of saying torture. His own time in Fort Drakon left Alistair very disdainful of the concept. A man would say most anything to make the pain stop. They were not methods he condoned even if others felt them quite necessary and efficient to extracting information. But for Howe to have said nothing so far, it was perplexing. "He's said nothing?"

"Oh he's said a great many things, but nothing of real import."

The touch upon his arm was soft – a gentle prod of the hand in an attempt for recognition. "If I might make a suggestion to his Majesty?" Elishka looked up at Alistair having taken position at his side. He flashed back to older times; the pair walking side by side and taking the country by storm. It was to her that everyone looked to answers. It was to her that everyone looked for action.

He imagined the feel of those fingers against the bare skin beneath his armor. It was the first kindness, even if tempered in courtly formality, she had bestowed upon in some time. She full well knew she could make a suggestion. He would let her suggest away without seeking permission. But she was playing a part, the loyal servant of the crown and he would play his, the obliging monarch. "Please." He tried to make his voice seem strong and authoritative.

"Perhaps Zevran might be able to be of assistance. He has certain talents that might prove useful."

_Oh I bet he does._

And the bubble burst.

* * *

It was strange stepping back into Fort Drakon. Alistair had avoided the place the entirety of his short reign thus far. The Fort held too many memories he did not wish to relive – torture at the hands of Loghain's men and torture at the release of Elishka's hand. This trip, however, could not be avoided and having the Antivan in tow did not make things any the more pleasant.

The entire walk from the Palace to the Fort had been riddled with awkward silence on Alistair's part. He had nothing to say to Zevran. Though really, that wasn't true. He had a lot to say to the elf. He was not, however, going to say those things in front of a bevy of guards or when he needed to put on his King-face. The temptation to throw Zevran deep into the bowels of the Fort's dungeons was far too strong so he felt it best not to speak lest the wrong thing be said and the wrong order be given.

Thankfully, Zevran had very little to say as well. That did not stop him, however, from generously tossing smug smiles and slippery smirks in the King's direction from time to time. The sooner the whole affair was over, the better it would be for both their sakes.

Far more unseemly than dealing with Zevran was the task ahead, though. He had never actually met Thomas Howe. When he walked into the depths of the Fort to the cell containing the man, it came as a bit of a shock at what he saw. The broken body of a man lied on the straw covered floor. So much like his father he appeared. They shared the same nose or what appeared to have once been the same nose if not for the caked blood and fractured bend of a break along the upper slope. The eyes were filled with a similar hatred and disdain, burning bright in anger and haughty arrogance even in the midst of his bad fortunes. And those lips, they twisted into an all too familiar sneer of contempt.

"_I deserved better."_

Alistair steeled his resolve, swallowing down the eerie feeling threatening to give him a shiver. He peered down at the man that would have him dead and shook his head in both sadness and frustration. "I understand you've not been cooperative. If you would only tell the men what they wish to know, I could make things more comfortable for you." Torture had failed. Perhaps a bit of kindness and mercy was merited instead.

But Alistair's gesture was met with a spit of contemptuous words, "You stole my family lands and put it in the hands of Orlesian puppets. I have nothing to say to you." A king stood before Thomas Howe, but Thomas made no effort to disguise his disdain for a man he felt was beneath him. Cooperation was not to be given willingly. Stubbornness ran strong in the Howe clan.

A heavy sigh passed over Alistair's lips. He knew what must be done but was not at all happy as he turned to the assassin at his side. "He's yours. But you'll have to excuse me if I don't stay here to watch." He would be off in the other room where it was more private. He could shield his eyes from seeing the weight and consequences of his orders. He could hide his disgust at himself for allowing what must be done to be done.

* * *

The hour passed slowly. If the ground beneath his feet had not been stone, Alistair was sure he would have driven a path of his own footprints into the flooring due to all his anxious pacing. Why had he allowed such a thing to take place? Yes, Thomas Howe had tried to take his life. Yes, the man needed to be punished and pay for his crimes. But did he really merit the special treatment Zevran might engage in to obtain bits of information? Had Alistair or Elishka really deserved the torment plied upon them during their stay at Fort Drakon?

Guilt wrenched his stomach and tore at hands that pressed twisted about one another. Was this what it meant to be King, make these heavy decisions, and to live with the burden of them upon his shoulders? And for what reward? At what cost? He got to watch everything he ever cared about drift away and be claimed by others. Duncan was gone and soon Elishka would be gone, as well.

Zevran, however, was not gone. He entered the room with little warning and no knock. A serious expression clung to his usually devil-licked features. "He claims Anora put him up to the attempt on your life. She promised to return his family lands and hinted at marriage should he have succeeded in his attempt to end your life."

And there it was. The confession crashed in unexpected and harsh. He suspected Anora had played her part in the affair but to hear she was supposedly at the helm of the conspiracy… Had he been that blind? Had he been that foolish as to not see through her? He shook his head, disbelief awash. "I…Did he say where she is?"

Plainly, Zevran's head indicated a 'no'. "He did not. He last saw her outside of Lothering. They had established a camp for the night. The next morning, she was gone along with her maid. Two days later, his entire force and he were captured by Eamon's troops." A frown drew across his mouth, "It would seem she had warning of Eamon's approach and made an escape."

_Spies…informants. _

Things were so much easier when his enemies wore mismatched and broken armor over scaly and grizzled bodies. There was no mistaking the evil and ill-intent of the darkspawn. But these political creatures? They were another enemy all together. A smile upon their lips, a delicate brush within their fingertips all was concealing a dagger ready to sink viciously into your back. It was a foe he was not prepared to deal with. It was a foe he did not full well know how to combat.

As much as it pained him, he had to admit these were waters Zevran was more skilled at wading through. He had sworn to himself that he would take the path of the pragmatist over that of the romantic. If ever there was a time to heed such an oath…

He pushed aside his differences with the elf and swallowed what pride he had left remaining. He could punch him later, but for now, he extended an olive branch and made a plea for help. "What…what would you do?"


	33. Whispered Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** _ This chapter is on the shorter side of things due to content. HUGE **warnings**. Reference to and implied torture. No kidding here. If this sort of thing is something you prefer not to read, scroll down to the **bottom **for a brief summary of the chapter.  
> _

Zevran had gone with Alistair because she asked. Those lips had found his ear and whispered her request: _"Please, help him. He needs us."_ She had picked -- she claimed -- but at Alistair's side, he found her once again. With the slide of her hand against a gauntlet covered arm, Zevran remembered a time not so long ago when that was how Alistair and she stood, side by side, Ferelden's last Grey Wardens.

He understood certain bonds existed between the pair. Bonds were shared between all members of the little Grey Warden's personal army. A certain level of camaraderie could not help but be born within battle and times at camp. But the connection between Alistair and Elishka was something stronger than that of comrade in arms to fellow combatant. Self-doubt's grasp pinched brief and was shrugged off with an easy smile and a cloaking of bravado. He would go because she asked.

Brown eyes begged for assistance as Alistair looked to Zevran and asked, "What..what would you do?"

He spoke plainly. The time for bravado and innuendo had passed by the moment they entered the cold and dank dungeons of the Fort. It ended the moment he was asked to slide effortlessly back into roles he long wished to forget. "I would do what was necessary, Alistair."

_Thomas' body was twisted and broken. It was the work of rank amateurs and it disgusted Zevran. There were far better ways to coax information out of an unwilling man – a little finesse was all that was required, not brute force._

_He had the guards bring Thomas to the rack, but the lover's embrace of metal and chain was not to be Thomas' fate. He had something else a bit more refined in mind for the fallen nobleman, something more fitting of his station and sins._

"_If true Ferelden men could not break me, what makes you think that an elfin Antivan can," Thomas spat as he was stretched and bound to the instrument of torture. It was a song Zevran had heard sung many times in the past. The melody betrayed an inevitable end to the siege. Thomas would confess. They always did. No one had ever been able to resist Zevran's special charms._

Alistair raked his fingers through his hair. His body teamed with frustration. "I get that. I just… Give me something to hit. Give me something to fight. Come at me through the backdoor and I just can't…"

The smile that touched Zevran's lips was faint and bespoke of something impish and withheld. "Yes, well, we cannot have people coming at the King's backdoor, no?" He would not have been himself if he did not tease just a little.

_His touch was gentle, a feather soft caress along the scarred and bloodied line of a cheek. "I'm sorry you had to endure so much." Leather cloaked shoulders rolled in shrug; a wistful sigh glided smooth from his mouth. His fingers raked along filth and blood drenched skin, tracing a mottled trail of bruises along Thomas' ribcage, bringing forth an involuntary shiver and a willful wince from the bound man. "This level of mistreatment is completely unnecessary." To the head of the rack, Zevran moved. He bent at the knees, lowering himself so that his lips were but inches from Thomas' ear. "I promise I will not further injure your body." _

A grumble-groan edged brusquely from the King. "Do you think for once you could check your…" The wide motion of his hand arced to motion to Zevran's mid-section. "…fancy pants at the door?" His tone dropped into the apologetic. "I am asking for your help. You can tease me about it later. Just, what would be your next steps if you were me?" As if to pre-empt whatever comment might follow, he held up a finger and added, "And don't say you would never be me or some other kind flippant insult meant to make you look like Ser Awesome and me Ser Silly."

_Whispered promises found target in an exposed ear. "If you tell me what I wish to know, we can end this all now." All too kind, Zevran tucked errant strands of hair stuck stubbornly to Thomas' cheek behind his ear. "I promise."_

"_Did they send a whore to do a man's work." More venom was spat from cracked and blistered lips._

"_A whoreson, yes. A whore?" Nonchalant, Zevran's brows rose and fell. "That remains to be seen, my friend?" He let out a disappointed sigh. "Perhaps a little foreplay is in order to get you more in the mood, no?" _

"Very well, but expect to be teased mercilessly later." Alistair, for all his faults, was exceedingly proud. To ask for help from Zevran was not an easy thing. Zevran leaned against the wall, propping a foot upon stone for additional support. "A confession, while extremely revealing, sometimes requires a bit of additional evidence to prove its merit, no? Perhaps we might search the Queen's Quarters and see if we can find anything supporting the Howe's claims?"

_Moisture pooled on the ground beneath the rack, the tightness of the cloth across Thomas' face loosened as it was lifted away. The pitcher of water held in Zevran's hand put aside for a moment, his head tilting intently as he peered down at the man beneath him gasping for air. Three rounds Thomas had held firm. It was far more than any other had withstood under Zevran's loving ministrations. "Just tell me what I want to know and you can return to your cell."_

_Tears mixed with the water residue coating Thomas' face. The tiny fractures within the dam of his resolve had begun to spider and sheer. No longer would he hold back and the words began to flow. An admission of guilt, a confession of conspiracy, it all came between sobs and begging pleas. _

A single nod was all Alistair mustered. "I suppose that is a reasonable enough plan. Then shall we go? I really don't want to spend another minute here if at all possible." His body let loose a shudder.

Zevran's gaze swept across the perimeter of the small and private room, a darkness encroaching briefly upon his expression before it once again sprang impish. "Promise me, dear Alistair, that I might go through her delicates?"

* * *

**Summary**: Zevran psychologically and physically tortures Thomas Howe to extract the confession and get information about the plot on Alistair. Alistair and Zevran chit-chat with a little teasing here and there but are mostly serious with one another. They decide to go search Anora's compartments at the Palace and see what they can find. Zevran wants to search her undie drawer.


	34. Bottoms Up

The walk from the Fort back to the Palace was a quiet one. Alistair did not want to imagine what tactics Zevran used to garner the information he was able to retrieve. Somehow, he felt it would be better not to know even if it did make his imagination go to rather unpleasant and unpretty places.

Flanked by guards, they made their way through the Palace to the upstairs rooms Anora had claimed as hers. Alistair had only been in these rooms one time before and only for a few moments when he came to retrieve her for dinner one evening.

The décor was far different than those of his rooms. Even in the midst of all the dark woods and heavy stone used in Ferelden architecture, there was a lightness of air within these chambers. There was no mistaking a female's influence in various furnishings, fabrics and rugs decorating the room. He would not have gone so far as to call it of Orlesian design, but it was easily what he imagined rooms in Orlais might look like.

"I don't even know where to begin to look," he admitted as they stood in the middle of the bedchamber. "If I was going to hide a particular scathing piece of evidence, where would I hide it?"

"If you do not wish me to tease, Alistair, you should not make it so easy," Zevran intoned without missing a step. "But as to where _I_ hide such things if I was a noblewoman such as your Queen? I might use the security of a jewelry box. Such things are easy to keep under lock and key without drawing suspicion."

It was a logical enough point to start with and Alistair was beyond wanting to play any type of game Zevran might have cooked up on the walk over. Whatever truce they had agreed to at the Fort would eventually cease to hold. For now, he tried to maintain the higher ground.

He moved across the room to a small writing desk. Atop it sat a box inlaid with a filigree design of onyx and pearl. He pushed the lid up but found nothing of import inside. Had he honestly expected to hit the mother lode on the first try? He shook his head and turned back to look at an approaching Zevran. "Not here."

"That is hardly surprising." Zevran stopped inches away from Alistair – uncomfortably close. The assassin's hand dropped and Alistair could have sworn he felt the heat and brush of a palm against the laces of his pants just prior to hearing the tug of an uncooperative drawer. The cease fire was on the verge of ending. He was going to kill Zevran when this was all done.

_Must not punch him._

All business and ignoring the elf, that was Alistair. "Can you open it," he asked, motioning with the crook of his head to the drawer. "The way you've talked about picking locks, I would assume you could do it with both hands tied behind your back and using only your tongue."

"Have you been speaking to Elishka? If I did not know better, I might think you were trying to play with me. But tsk, trying to have me bound again? And so soon? I've barely recovered from the last time. "

_Must not punch him._

For a blessed few moments, Zevran grew quiet and bestowed his attentions upon the small keyhole of a lock resting in the center of the writing desk drawer. After his examination was completed, he confessed, "I did not come with the proper tools, but I assure you, I can open it."

"Yeah..riiiight." Excuses, excuses. Alistair would have been seriously surprised if Zevran had been able to open the drawer. He never had been that helpful when it came to locks. Perhaps he was all talk and no walk about other matters, as well. The thought brought a small smile to Alistair's lips. "Well maybe there is a key somewhere."

And so the search continued. Through armoires, under bedding and furniture and inside dresser drawers they searched. Little care was taken, at least by Alistair, for Anora's possessions. Clothing, books, whatever his fingers crossed were tossed upon the floor in make-shift piles. He'd have them removed all together later and perhaps burned in a huge bonfire of hate.

There was little speaking for some time before the silence was broached in a velvet smooth manner tipped with a sprinkle of the obscene. "I wonder what our fair warden would look like in something like this? "

But Alistair would not turn around. The worm had been dangled anew and this fish was not going to swim up and foolishly nip upon the slippery treat. He would humor Zevran not. Let the Antivan take his jabs – Alistair was going to do his best to dodge them with willful ignorance. "I'm not going to take the bait, Zevran. You are just trying to get a rise out of me."

"Oh my dear Alistair, if only I was able to get a rise out of you. The fun that could be had if such was true."

Hook, line and unintentional sinker. Alistair left that door opened and should have expected Zevran to sashay right through its gaping maw. "Ugh..no. That is not what I meant." He turned and stared at the all too self-confident elf. "By the Maker, you are insufferable. Everything is some dirty joke to you. Oh look at me! I'm the mighty Zevran with my dashing good looks and sexy swagger." His hands raised and swished along the side of head as if sweeping back an invisible mane of luxurious locks in a glorious hairflip. "I'm so mysterious and roguey. Women can't get enough of me and my dagger play. Swoosh swoosh. " Stab stab, he went at empty air with a balled up fist.

Tanned arms entwined about one another in a chest covering gesture. The slope of Zevran's brow arced entertained, "Ah yes, perhaps I should try to stand around and look stupidly handsome instead. That seems to work so well for you."

"I hate you." And Zevran's stupid smug expression, and his stupid perfect hair and his stupid witty tongue, Alistair hated it all.

_Must not punch him._

"Of course, we have covered this before I believe. Such hatred will cause me to cry myself to sleep tonight against Elishka's bosom, no doubt." A simper of a pout overtook Zevran's mouth in mocking.

A snort grew in Alistair's throat. Zevran would as soon cry tears for Alistair as he would… "Sure, just as I am going to stay up all night thinking about what you might be doing in your bed."

Light danced brilliant in the brown of Zevran's eyes. He made no effort to disguise the fun he was having at this game. "Now now, Alistair. We both know it will not be me you are thinking of in bed. I do believe you will be thinking about your new friend Cullen instead. I've heard tales of Templar brotherhood and the bonds you share." The point was Zev's.

_Must not…oh forget it._

But the match was to be Alistair's. Knuckles. Nose. Bright light. Pain. His fist flew in the air with little warning and connected with the angle of Zevran's nose, causing the Antivan to fly back and collide with the desk. The force of the collision caused wood to crack and snap; the small writing desk collapsing under the impact of the elf.

"Such passion," Zevran moaned as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It is a shame to see it wasted so." He let out a small sigh before pushing himself off the ground. A glance casted down at the shattered remnants of the furniture piece revealed papers mixed in with the splintered wood. "Apparently I had the right tools all along." His hands moved to rub at his backside. "And you doubted I could open such a simple lock. For shame!"

"Oh yes, I should have known if anyone had a magical ass of drawer opening, it would be the great Antivan Crow." Sarcasm was not the best suit that Alistair wore, but did his best to own the look with the crinkle of his brows and the roll of his eyes. He held out his hand, ready to be done. "Just let me have those papers and let's see what they have to say."


	35. And Cullen watched

Elishka paced and Cullen watched. It felt a bit like old times to him. She would walk the hallways of the Circle. And he would watch. She would study in the library. And he would watch. She would eat her meals. And he would watch. She would go to take her bath. And he would… Some things he would never openly confess to do doing, but yes, he watched. From a distance, he may have appeared quite the stalker. In hindsight, he could admit that he probably had been. Stare, stare, watch, watch, follow, follow. But he had his duty and his duty was good.

So as he sat there in a rather comfortable chair – _It's good to be the King, eh? – _he could not help but think back to those times with a bit of longing and fondness. Everything was much simpler, black and white. They swam in innocence.

So as she walked circles into the floor of her room at the Palace, he watched and allowed his lips to twist in a bittersweet smile.

"What in the Maker's name are you smiling at?" Elishka's cross-room circuit came to an abrupt stop in front of Cullen's chair. Hands rested atop her hips, fingers strumming irritated against the cloth of her robes.

_Ah yes, just like old times indeed._

"Nothing….just reminiscing is all." His smile's angling took on a _please don't kill me_ tilt. "You know, the good times?"

The whites of her eyes flashed into view with a dramatic roll. Her chest heaved; her foot tapped against the ground. "Good times? Oh, you mean, back when my every move was watched within that gilded phallus-shaped tower?" But before he could answer, a softening overtook her expression. Whatever hair had crawled up inside her dislodged, if but momentarily. "I'm sorry. I'm just… I'm anxious. They've been gone a while."

He should have figured. It always came back to those two: Zevran and the King. How her life had changed since those days in the Circle. Hero of Ferelden, free mage, grown woman – the list of changes was vast. And the woman that stood before him was one comment away from turning him into a frog. She'd been on edge from the moment that she sent Zevran off with the King. He could only imagine what special talents Zevran might possess. The thought was enough to send a shiver down his spine. It was easy to forget the Antivan was an assassin. To Cullen, he was mostly a pain in the side as well as a particularly haunting image burned into his brain.

"I can't imagine…" He did not get a chance to finish his sentence. Think of the elf three times in quick succession and he was bound to appear. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on a person's preference, Zevran did not look nearly as pretty as he had at his departure. Bruises had begun to form beneath his eyes and the bridge of his nose appeared bruised and bloodied. And though Cullen knew it was unkind to smile at another's injury, he could not help but crack a small grin at Zev's facial misfortune.

Elishka, however, did not smile. A frown upon her lips accompanied the furrowing of her brow in displeasure. "Oh Zev." She walked to him, stopping as she lifted a hand to press gently against his injured nose causing the assassin to wince. "What happened?" She ushered him to the bed and made him sit down upon it with the downward push of her hands against his shoulders. "Howe didn't…"

A shake of the head, an incline of the brow, a downward turn of the lips – Zevran put on quite the show as the injured man. "No, he did not. My charms, I am afraid, overwhelmed our dear King."

_It's good to be the King._

The small grin that crept upon Cullen's lips grew into something a bit more broad and found a friend in a chortle that erupted.

"I can just about imagine how charming you were, Zev." A stern look tossed in Cullen's direction before Elishka turned back to Zevran with the gentle shake of her head. "It's broken, you know?"

"I am quite aware," Zevran let out with a sigh. "While I invite the opportunity to look even more roguishly handsome, as if such a thing was possible…"

Her movements were quick and rough. Fingers pressed into the top of Zevran's nose and shifted it back into place in a single bone-crunching motion. The sound of was enough to make Cullen visibly cringe. He had never broken a bone in his life. Given the pained expression splashing red against Zevran's usually smugly drawn features, he hoped never to break one, especially those within the nose.

"Yes, I'll set it," Elishka said, the deed already completed.

A whimpering cry escaped Zevran's mouth before wryness crept upon its width. "You are a cruel, cruel woman, my little Warden."

Magic sparked in the air, sending a prickle of discomfort along Cullen's skin, Templar-senses flared to high alert. She was to heal the injury. Blue sparkles shot electric from her fingertips as they pressed gentle into Zevran's royal gift. "Now, it should feel a little better. But do try to avoid exciting Alistair again for at least a day. Remember, I'm no Wynne."

"While her bosom is magical indeed, I must admit that I am rather fond of yours." A soft kiss was placed on the cloth-covered swell of Elishka's breasts. The playful talk, the shameless flirting, it all brought a roll to Cullen's eyes and a groan to his lips. He would scream 'get a room', but it would do no good.

"So, you going to tell me what else happened," Elishka asked of Zevran as she took a seat next to him on the bed.

And Zevran started to describe the events of the day, the information gleaned from Thomas Howe, the search of Anora's compartments, and the discovery of the papers. The documents were a series of letters from Orlais and the Empress Celine. Apologies for Cailan's death, talk of treaties to be formed, carefully worded invites to come visit Orlais, the subject matter of the letters had all appeared official Crown business and nothing too suspicious or criminal in nature.

Through the whole recounting, Elishka sat at Zevran's side and listened. Occasionally, she was dip her head in a nod, letting him know she was still listening, but she never did interrupt. She wore her thinker's expression. Cullen had seen it on enough occasions to recognize it in an instant. The wheels of her mind were taking in all the information and trying to pluck rhyme and reason from its meaning.

Only when Zevran finished speaking did she speak in return. "I'm..I'm going to go talk to Alistair." Her hand took Zev's in her own and squeezed it gently. "I need to tell him we are leaving. I see no reason for us to stay any longer."

So that was how it was going to be. They would go back on the road. It saddened him. He had grown quite fond of the King and had hoped to spend a little more time with him before the Warden circus moved onto its next city or village. He could not help but frown.

His change in facial expression had not gone unnoticed by Elishka. Attentions flitted from Zevran to Cullen. "Zev, why don't you take Cullen out for tonight. He's probably long overdue for some _fun." _ Everything about the way she said _fun_ felt very wink-wink nudge-nudge and left Cullen with a crawling sense of trepidation.

Nothing good could come from the smile that slowly crept wide across Zev's mouth. A kiss plied upon her cheek and Zevran released her hand. "Go speak Alistair. I shall show our ex-Templar some of Denerim's more tantalizing sights."

She rose from the bed and started for the door. "Just bring him back in one piece, ok?" she asked, almost as if an afterthought, while glancing over her shoulder at the grinning Antivan.

His hand to his chest, an oath being sworn, Zevran said, "I promise you not a hair on his head, or elsewhere, shall be harmed."

_Elsewhere?_

* * *

There was uncomfortable and then there was _uncomfortable_. Cullen was feeling very much the latter. He knew whatever Zevran had in store for him could not be good. He honestly did not want to go, and begged in vain to escape what promised to be an evening of torture. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Zevran had been charged with a mission, and he was nothing if not diligent in fulfilling his quests. Plus, it was painfully clear that Zevran was quite happy to carry out this particular job.

A gamut of possibilities ran through Cullen's head as they exited the Palace and started down the brightly lit streets of the Palace District. What had Zevran meant by _elsewhere_? Was he going to make Cullen… Images rushed back into his mind and his stomach whirled in protest.

"You should know, dear Cullen, that you hurt my feelings greatly." That voice, all thick with his accent and all sultry with the way he says things like 'dear', brought visible tightening to Cullen's posture.

"Uh..how?" Cullen asked, confused. Had he not held a door open for the not-a-lady elf?

A tsk in his tone and a chiding smile upon his lips, Zevran said, "You left me a rather vulnerable state and offered me no release or any kind. I should be extremely cross with you."

So it was _that_. Teeth tugged at Cullen's lower lip. He did not ever want to talk about that night. It was bad enough the images would never leave his head. But to have to talk about it? No, he had stood his ground and he would do it again. Little steps for the bigger man. That would be him. "You seemed to have recovered alright."

Zevran gestured to the right indicating their path would take them down a different road. "Ah yes, Elishka's talent for healing is not wholly restricted to her hands."

Too much information, the elf was always giving away too much information. "Maker's ass, don't you ever shut up?"

"Occasionally. When my mouth otherwise occupied. Are you volunteering?"

Daggers, little brown eyed-daggers of hate were shot toward Zevran. He could only hope that they hit their mark.

"I shall take that smoldering look you are so generously bestowing upon me as a 'No'. Would you mind terribly if I asked you a question?"

They made another turn down a different street. Cullen had no idea where they were heading, but it appeared to be a rather residential area of the Palace district. Each block seemed to be composed of a different estate. "I suspect you'll ask it whether I mind or not."

"True, but it is polite to ask first, no? We have taken the boy of the Chantry, but I am curious, has the Chantry ever been taken out of the boy," Zevran asked casually as if he had asked if Cullen would like some milk in his tea or some bread with his meal.

The question befuddled Cullen. "Uh…what?" Was he asking? Could he possibly be probing _there?_

Cullen did not have to wait long to find out the answer. "Have you ever experienced the pleasures of a woman…." Brows took on a devilish arc and Zevran added, "..or a man?"

His response sputtered out. He was so not talking about this especially not with assassin. "I am not answering that. It is none of your business."

They stopped in front of a rather stately looking manor. Cullen wondered if it was someone's house. "Ah, and I shall take that as a 'No' as well," Zev mused before motioning to a set of gates leading into the manor's courtyard. "Come then. We are here. We have the Maker's work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The Honeyed Peach' is a telling of what happens at the end of this chapter. You can find it in my profile.


	36. Never Say Goodbye

Alistair was not in the library, not that Elishka really expected to find him there. He had never been much for reading. She stopped and searched for him there, anyway. Perhaps it was a stalling tactic, a way of putting off the inevitable. They needed to speak about so many things and she simply did not know how to start or what to say. An end would come from their conversation as well as the birth of a new beginning, which scared her. Alistair was everything comfortable, known and safe. His book was opened, the pages spread on display for all too easily read. No mysteries lay hidden within the text.

Her path took her through the Landsmeet chamber, memories ghosting about in flickers of hope and pain. The first time she had walked into the chamber she had been filled with purpose, her enemy crystalline and obvious. Side by side, they stood in victory at the fall of a hero. Side by side, they stood as cheers echoed joyous at the pronouncement of a new King. Jubilation rained down in precious relief. They had won the battle and now had but to win the war.

The second time she had walked into the chamber she had been filled with dread, her enemy a conflicting blur of emotions. So far apart they stood in the celebration of a hero. So far apart they stood as cheers echoed, joyous at the victorious strike of a Warden against her foe. So far apart they stood as a King stood side by side with his new Queen. Bitterness swallowed down with another swill of wine, another gulp of intoxicating and dulling relief. They had won the war and now had but to accept their prizes.

This third time she walked into the chamber she was filled only the remembrances of times past and the cool recognition of what she must do. She had put it off long enough.

She eventually found Alistair in his study. Guards were stationed in each corner of the room as well as at the entrance. Eamon and Alistair appeared to be in deep conversation.

She interrupted with a cough. "Your Majesty. Might I speak to you in private?"

Alistair's expression washed plain. She had not been kind to him, and it would have come as no surprise if he did not wish to be alone with her; however, with the sweep of his hand, he bade the guards leave the room. His request to the elder statesmen was a bit more personal. "Eamon, please?"

Elishka waited, hands fidgeting nervously with her robes. Eamon left the room without protest, but not before he paused to give a rather stern look to the mage. Elishka bit back the urge to stick her tongue out at the man, and instead offered him an apologetic smile. Whatever they had been discussing could wait. Elishka's matters were far more pressing and far more liable to turn rotten if she didn't move while the comments were fresh in her head.

As Eamon left the room and the heavy door closed behind him, Alistair turned and looked squarely at Elishka. Annoyance and curiosity brushed along his features. "Please, don't do that. Not today. Just call me Alistair, ok? So what's so important that you had to interrupt my meeting?"

And that was how it was to be. She had crossed the line without trying and sparked his irritation in a simple greeting. She capitulated, "Alright… Alistair." She walked over toward a window, her back turned to Alistair. "I know Zevran can be irresistible but…"

Words snapped, "I don't need to hear from _you _how charming he can be." She could feel his closeness as Alistair neared her by the window. A sigh escaped him. "I shouldn't have hit him but he... What can I say? I'm not sorry I did." There was no regret in his tone.

_Stay calm and get through this..._

Teeth tugged at her lower lip, biting anxiously. Her hand rose and traced the leaded border between the windowpanes. "I don't suppose you would be. You broke his nose, so you know. But I fixed it." She always fixed everything.

He shifted, taking a position at her side rather than hovering from behind. "I hope you didn't come here just to chastise me for hitting your… I don't even know what to call him."

She glanced up to Alistair, drawing her attentions away from the window. "Just call him Zev, Alistair. And no, that is not why I came here."

His brows furrowed, anger sparking in his eyes. "Then why are you here? I'm tired. It's been a long day and I don't want to argue or have another fight with you. I'm…I just can't do it anymore, Elishka."

She could not do it anymore either. This living in the trenches between what was and what could be had grown tiresome and grating. "I…that's why I'm here. We..._I _am going to leave tomorrow. I think it's for the best."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." She sighed and shrugged. "What do you expect, Alistair? I told you that I wouldn't stay. I can't take your offer. Be honest with yourself, it was never much of an offer."

His hands took possession of her shoulders, turning Elishka to face him. "You once told me that everyone was out for themselves. The offer was quite real and now with Anora… Well it seems she is out of the picture doesn't it? Just before you arrived, Eamon was telling me she had been spotted on a ship headed to Orlais over a week ago." Feather soft, thumbs brushed against the fabric of her robes. "I need you to stay. I didn't realize how alone I was until I saw you again."

"I did tell you that and I am following my own advice. I'm sorry to hear about Anora. I should have known better." The woman had been far more politically savvy than Elishka had assumed. Or maybe Elishka was just far less politically perceptive than she had thought. Either way, Anora had duped her into believing she would happily reign at Alistair's side. "I… She seemed the best alternative at the time for peace. But it doesn't matter, Alistair, if Anora is around or not. You will marry as it is your duty to do so. Eamon will see to it, I am quite sure. I would not do to that woman, whoever she may be, what you ask of me. I am many things, but I am not a cheat."

In truth, she could not do to another woman what he asked. She would not like to be married to a man with a mistress, after all. What she could not do is be the dirty secret or the topic of whispered gossip. She would never fully be a part of his life, not if she resided within the shadows. Bitterness and regret could only be born from such an existence. She deserved better. Zevran had helped her realize this.

"But you associate yourself with one? " His words were meant to sting. An accusatory eye stared down at Elishka, trying to pierce through and fracture the logic behind her decision.

But he did not succeed. She shook her head, unwilling to give even a little. "Zevran is not a cheat and you know that. You aren't being fair."

The fires stoked, the flames rising higher and higher in the volume of his tone. "Fair? You want to talk about what is fair? How fair is it that I had to ask your _lover _to torture a man today? How fair is it that you made me king against my wishes? How fair is it that even you are abandoning me?" His fingers squeezed, pressing firm into her shoulders and upper arms.

She shrugged away, a tug of the torso freeing her from his grasp. The calmness she had struggled to maintain began to fade, her own teapot of a mood beginning to simmer and steam. "Let's get something straight. I'm not the one that did the leaving, but I thought you didn't want to argue?"

Hands rose and raked through his dirty blond locks, tugging at their length. A disparaging groan preceded his surrender. "I don't..I didn't. Maker's breath, woman. You make me insane."

Her shoulders rolled back, posture straightening in an attempt to dampen her rising mood. "See, another reason why I should leave. You need to keep your head clear." He needed to see the logic for both their sakes.

"You would have done it to Anora if I had asked, after the Landsmeet. Have you really changed so much?"

And he had her there. She would have given up anything if he would have just made that proposal back then. There was no doubt she would have jumped at the opportunity. She wanted a little happiness for herself after all the things she had to do. But that was not what happened. "I would have, yes. You gave me hope that there was a life for me outside of the Circle. I was young and in love. I did what I thought was right and I knew you would do the same. You broke my heart."

"Loved?" Again, familiar hands land upon Elishka, wrapping around her back and pulling her toward him. "I recall you saying at the lake that you still loved me. You also never answered my question about Zevran. Do you love him?"

Breathing steady became difficult. In and out, in and out, staggered breaths were drawn in an uneven manner. "I remember telling you it was none of your business too."

"I'm making it my business." One hand drew upward, a finger tilting against the bottom of Elishka's chin and nudging it up.

It could have been terribly romantic to say no, to profess undying love and affection for the man full of hope that held her. Her fairytale ending was within her grasp – a knight in shining armor, a King no less, ready and eager to sweep her away in his arms like something out of one of her romance novels. And while she had told Zevran that she picked him, a bit of doubt had lingered. Could there be love between them? Did she love him?

She'd avoided the question, uneager to walk down that path again. Her last trip had left her broken and angry, half the person she could have been. But she had leapt into his arms and found comfort and peace. Zevran was what she needed, an imperfect man as the perfect solution.

Everything that had been blurry became clear. Something lost found. Her voice quiet, a whispered confession, "I think I do."

Alistair's hold upon Elishka loosened defeated. His eyes looked elsewhere – anywhere but at her. His face pulled down in heavy frown, "I see."

The thin line of hope had been ripped in two with her admission. There had been a time she wanted to see him hurt, a time when she wanted to see his tears dripping, sloppy and indelicate. All that now seemed petty. Her desire to cause him pain twisted into her own sadness and remorse at having caused him anguish. Could this have been how he felt at the Landsmeet? Could she have truly misjudged him so?

_I have been so unfair…_

"You were right after the Landsmeet. I just didn't see it at the time. I was so wrapped up in my own pain that I failed to see you were only doing what you had to. Wynne once told me that as a Warden I would have to make hard decisions that would go against my self-interest. It took me some time to realize the wisdom in those words. So, I need to leave. We need separation. "

"And if I forbid it?" Still he clung stubbornly to the loose threads dangling in the air, grasping desperately.

And again, she does not relent and stands her ground, firm. "You won't because you know I'm right. You are just angry about Zevran."

He had no response and let the silence hang heavy in the air for some time. Eventually, he does speak though but with more questions. "I have to know. Why Zevran?"

"Do you really want me to answer that Alistair?"

"Yes, I need to know."

She sighs. This was not the conversation she wanted to have or thought she would be having. Though answers might sting in the short term, perhaps they would help with time. He never gave her answers when circumstances were reversed. She would take the high road for once. "He's like me. And he never judges."

"I don't judge you."

"Yes, you do. There have been many decisions I've had to make that you did not agree with. And while you swallowed down your difference of opinion and tried to keep it hidden that it bothered you, I could always tell, Alistair. " She drew a finger to Alistair's mouth and pressed it against his lips to silence the words that were on the verge of being spoken. "Before you say anything to that, I want to say that it's alright. It's part of what makes you who you are, and I would never change that about you."

His head shook, hurt reflected in his expression. "But it's not enough to make you want to stay here, with me?"

"That isn't what I said, Alistair. Zevran makes me happy. He doesn't make me pretend to be something I'm not. He lets me be myself. You know if I stayed at court I could not be myself, not really."

The pain muted, sense having finally appeared to penetrate the King's thoughts. His features lost the hard edge of conversational battle and took on the softness of the defeated. "I…. Do you always have to be right?" Point, set and match for the mage.

"It's a talent, I'm afraid. Comes along with the Hero title." She patted his arm affectionately. "Tell you what I'm going to do. I hate the idea of you here without someone. I'm going to leave Cullen as the official representative of the Grey Wardens at Court. If that is alright with His Majesty?"

"He's not nearly as pretty as you are, but I suppose that will be fine so long as he understands I won't cuddle with him."

"I don't think that will be a problem. "

"You once mentioned we were not friends. Is that true?"

"I'd like us to be. I know I've been incredibly mean and heartless to you over the last couple months and I can't promise that I won't have my moments." She grinned sheepishly. "You have a talent for bringing those moments out in me. But, yes, I'd like us to be friends again." She wanted that more than he could ever know. She needed his friendship; too much had passed between them to ever cut ties no matter their romantic status. She would always love Alistair.

"I…I would like that." He hesitated, all awkward motions and uncertain moves. His arms opened in offering of a hug. She slid into his arms, taking comfort in his strength and warmth. He was always so warm.

The embrace ended as clumsily as it started. Elishka took an unsteady step back. Arms crossed over her chest. Protective stance was put into action. No more hugging. No more touching. "I should go before we fight again."

"If you ever need anything…."

"The same … " Maybe a little more touching, lips found his cheek and pressed down in gentle kiss, a friendly gesture and nothing more. "Good-bye Alistair," she murmured before making her exit. She knew it would not be the last time she saw him, but everything would be different when they would meet again. Friendship barriers would be erected, intimacy levels changed forever. And the prospect of all that? It did not bother her in the slightest. She had Zevran to turn to. Zevran to..

_Oh Maker's ass, I sent Cullen off with Zevran… What was I thinking?_


	37. The Perfect Key

The women lazed about Zevran's feet and lap, clutching playfully at him with overly friendly hands and all-too-beckoning smiles. In another time and another place, their invitation would have been graciously accepted. The luscious swell of a fine breast was a one of the Maker's finest creations, and the set that heaved before him with each giggle and breath was as magnificent a pair as he had ever had the pleasure to behold.

Temptation's pull was resisted with but a single glance back down to paper dangling precariously between two of his fingers. Zevran had carried this scrap with him for some time. One bit of vellum served as a reminder of past errors in judgment, in both action and thought. His hand extended, reaching toward a candle along the table at his side. The flame flickered dangerously close to the keepsake. Just another inch and all would have been set aflame and with it the excuses he used to blanket his fear.

To burn a silly bit of parchment or not? The act itself was simple; the gesture and its implications, however, were far from plain.

Zevran appreciated the comedy of such a significant decision coming to pass in a whorehouse. Granted, it was the finest whorehouse in all of Denerim. But still, it was a whorehouse no matter how fancy the dressing. Such establishments had easily been the backdrop for some of the more memorable moments in his life – his birth, his sale to the Crows, a scandalous rendezvous or two or three or four (he simply had lost count), and now…

The journey to this started on a dusty and mostly abandoned portion of the Imperial Highway. Sources had informed him that the Wardens would travel that path. Diversions set up, help put into place, he waited until they arrived and nibbled at his bait.

_The Grey Warden dies here._

The words echoed in bittersweet memory. A good death steeped in battle he had sought; release from his guilt, release from his sins, release from his life. He would die as Rinna had died, at the hands of another. But, such a reprieve did not come and instead he found himself in the service of his mark as her loyal servant. Fate truly had a wicked sense of humor.

Elishka was speaking to Alistair. Fates would be decided and goodbyes said. She claimed to have picked, to have chosen Zevran. Experience, however, had taught him to be cautious. What a person said and what they did, did not always match.

In the end, however, he had to admit that it really didn't matter what she discussed with Alistair. His mind had already been made up. It had been made up the moment he gave her the earring, the one trophy he managed to keep in recognition of all his feats as an accomplished assassin. The trinket meant more to him than he would admit at the time, but could no longer deny.

"What is that, Zevie," the woman upon his lap cooed drawing his attentions away from the wanderings of his mind and back to the rovings of her hands. Soft fingers strummed a temptress' beat along front of his pants as her other hand reached for the paper.

More surprising than the lack of physical response he felt at this woman's touch was the tone of voice he heard escape from his lips, "It's _Zevran_ and I did not pay you to be nosy." Almost immediately upon uttering the words, his face fell into an apologetic expression. The girl was only doing her job. He had paid for her time more out of habit than need. "I...I am sorry, my pet." He brushed his fingers against her downcast chin, raising it up. "It is nothing. Something…"

Blinders were removed. The mirror's reflection shone back at him with the truth of his ailment – love. The symptoms had been there all along, he had simply chosen to ignore them as if a lack of acknowledgement might make his heart forget what it had grown to feel. Blissful ignorance did not wish to become his mistress, however.

The feelings he had been avoiding, the confessions he did not want to make, he ceased to evade. The time had come to dive in fully and let the waters consume him. His lips slid into a whisper of a smile as let a corner of the folded paper brush against the flame. He placed the document into a metal tin at his side and watched as the bright gaze of eyes that burned like justice began to dim in his mind. He would carry the smothering weight of her memory no longer.

"…to be rid of."

* * *

The corners of Zevran's mouth curled in a smile as Cullen and he walked back to the Palace. One side of his mouth wished to tilt upward at the prospect of the woman awaiting him in his room. And while a part of him still doubted that he deserved to be her choice, he sought to smother his doubt with a blast of self-validation. He was no longer the Crow that arrived in Ferelden. The Blight, freedom from direct influence of his Crow masters, and Elishka had changed him. What had felt out of his grasp and forbidden to one such as him, no longer felt so unobtainable. He always learned to take his pleasures when he could, and he intended to take her.

The other half of his mouth twisted up in grin at the fun to be had at Cullen's expense. A blush of innocence had been washed away with the bawdy hue of becoming a man. He would not have been himself if he did not toy with the deflowered Templar. A pat on his ass had been just a start to the festivities.

Hovering was in order. Zevran edged against Cullen, letting his nose brush close to the other man's shoulder eliciting a jerky jump and a hop away by Cullen. "What are you doing," Cullen exclaimed, all too eager to increase the area between them.

Zev's hand wafted the air from in front of Cullen to his nose. "Taking in the aroma of a freshly picked flower. Mmmm, my dear Cullen, I do believe I smell the cloying scent of the fragrant blossom of love upon you."

Redness washed across Cullen's embarrassed cheeks. He casted his glance to the side, quite purposefully avoiding eye contact with Zevran. "Has anyone ever told you that you are perverse?"

"Perverse? No, no." Zevran's grin broadened, " Experienced has a far better ring to it, don't you think? But if I recall, I am not the one that partook in the delicate delights offered at our prior location."

Cullen's entire face pinched sourly as hands threw out in protest. "I…you made me."

Conversation had made the return trip pass quickly. As they walked through the main gates, a chuckle formed upon Zevran's lips. The ex-Templar was far too easy and far too fun to toy with. A spin of the top, a jump of the rope, the playground of Cullen's torment was filled with playful possibilities. "Did I? I don't recall hearing you scream in protest. No no, my dear Cullen. The only sounds I heard were..."

Cullen turned quickly and stood directly in front of Zevran. A hand shot out. "Just stop right there. I don't need to know what you heard."

"Tsk..tsk. There is no shame in having indulged in such sweet nectar. I must say that you do have quite the glow about you." Just ahead and over the line of Cullen's shoulder, he saw her advancing – Elishka. She neared the pair, her face set with purpose. "Everyone will notice you are a changed man."

Completely clueless to the mage's approach, Cullen squeaked in query, "They'll be able to tell? They'll know what I…did?"

Game, set, match. The timing could not have been more perfect. Cullen's last questions were easily overheard by Elishka as she arrived at the duo. Her brow quirked curiously as her hands perched upon her hips. "And just what did you do Cullen?"

Hands were wrung together in a nervous squeeze. Cullen's feet shuffled back and forth. A man of little words, his impassioned defense consisted solely of, "I..."

Zevran could have let Cullen try to dig himself out the hole he so unintentionally dove into. Pity, or even a small sliver of camaraderie born between the pair during their trip to the brothel brought him to saunter forth as the man's savior. "He was hungry and I took him to taste the offerings of one of Denerim's finer establishments."

Gullible was not a word that could be used to describe Elishka. Suspicion colored her guise as she stared at Zevran. Would she believe him or not? "Uh huh," was all the acknowledgement he received before she turned brunt of her gaze upon Cullen, "What did you eat then?"

Speech continued to evade Cullen. "Uhhhhh…"

Zevran continued to take up the verbal slack for his newest friend, but it did not stop him from having a little fun during his charitable rescue. "Our friend is at a loss for words, I am afraid. The dish was a bit overwhelming for him. He had a confectionary delight unlike any other he has had in his life. Never has his lips touched such a fine treat. It was a first for our dear friend."

Hands moved from her hips, arms rising to cross over her chest. "I see." Elishka continued to peer at Cullen. "Well, maybe you can go back _there_ again, now that you'll be staying in Denerim."

A sense of foreboding pinched in sting. Staying in Denerim? Had things not gone as he expected? With a tempered tone he asked, "We are staying?"

Elishka shook her head. "_We_ are not, but Cullen is. He's going to represent the Wardens at Court as much as we need representation."

And the feeling subsided, washed away in a relief. "So we are leaving?"

To his side she moved, an arm wrapping about one of his. A knowing smile creased her lips, "Mmmhmmmm but for now we are going to our room where you can tell me more about just _what_ you had at the brothel."

* * *

There was purpose behind the drag of her hands and the press of her lips against his. Clothing was shorn away. His shirt tossed aside just shy of the door. His boots made it only slightly further, kicked away with the quick shimmy of his feet. Pants were urged down and stepped out of just shy of the bed. He fell backward, pulling Elishka along with him.

He edged behind Elishka, his chest to her back. His mouth lingered at the dip of her neck, a trail of kisses rising to just shy of her ear. Pushed by need, he pressed into her slowly. "Your talk with Alistair was good," he asked.

"Good," she gasped, her back arching to enable her to push further into Zevran. One leg lifted and hooked along his upper one. "We've come to an agreement."

A slow and steady course was set. "And what agreement was that?" No guesses. No assumptions.

Breathing became more rapid. "What is in the past is in the past. Our futures are not together." Her hand searched out of one of his. "And Zev?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She guided his hand between her legs. No more talking.

For the second time in the day he had been told to shut up. And unlike the last, this time he felt compelled to comply. No more words were needed. He had heard what he needed to hear, what he had wanted to hear. There was no Alistair between them. There was no Rinna. She was his and he was hers. Both of their connections to the past had been severed. All that remained was an entanglement of limbs, heated kisses and knowing touches.

The rhythm built at a steady pace until everything crashed down in a shudder, first Elishka then Zevran a few moments later.

A turn of the body and Elishka moved to face Zevran once again. Fingers brushed errant strands of hair behind the high peak of Zevran's ear. Silence broken, she whispered a confession, "I love you. In case you didn't know." Three simple words he did not know he longed to hear until they touched his ears. The last time those words had been uttered to him, a woman laid at his feet, begging for her life. At the time, hatred of her apparent betrayal and hatred of himself for having been so weak ate at his core. With the aid of the small flame from a candle, he sought to burn away those negative feelings.

Rather than frown and let the memory of the past to suffocate him, he allowed it to be in the past and looked to the future. They would not be the cheeriest of pairings. It simply was not in either of their natures – she entirely too sarcastic and he entirely too arrogant and cocksure. He dove headfirst into the prospect of happiness tempered in seas of grey. His mouth pressed against hers in a soft kiss curved into a smile. He murmured, "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN**: _ And with that, we come to the end of my first mega piece of fanfic ever. Thank you so much for all the reviews, the favs, alerts and PMs. They are very much appreciated, helped to encourage me to continue and very much made me feel like Sally Field at times. _
> 
> _I want to specifically make a call out to Sagacious Rage, Midnight Strike, NotLaura, Crisium, Malaia, Lothering Rose, Trax and the other folks of IRC and the swooping comm for all your support. The betas, the advice, the shoulders to whine upon were hugely huge help. I could not have finished this without y'all. _
> 
> _Stay tuned for a sequel. The story of this ragtag bunch of misfits is far from complete..._


End file.
